Ninety One Whiskey
by pop-pop-bananas
Summary: In 1944, the US 104th Medical Battalion is disbanded and reassigned to various infantry companies. For Lt Novak, this is less than helpful, as he's met his platoon's medic twice, and has found Sergeant Winchester to be reckless, arrogant, and downright insufferable. When the time comes to move out, Castiel has to reconcile himself to the fact that they're going to need him. WW2 AU
1. Slapton Sands

**Warnings: **major and minor character death, female-to-male cisswap, homophobia and racism, some gore, PTSD and anxiety, physical disability including paralysis, limb loss, and blindness, suicidal ideology, alcohol use, excessive smoking, some tasteless jokes, and a shitload of confusing military abbreviations. Re: sex stuff, includes Dean and Cas as switches, with elements of both domming/subbing, with one instance of bottom!Cas.

**Notes:** Baker Company is completely fictitious, as is its involvement in World War Two, but all other featured military units and their involvements are real. All places, events and major battles are real, but minor conflicts and the way in which battles play out are a result of my imagination. The fictional contributions of Baker Company to the ETO are not designed to undermine the hard work and sacrifice of the real soldiers of the 29th Infantry Division, nor any of the Armed Forces who fought in Europe. To the best of my knowledge, this fic is historically accurate, but if anyone reading this comes across anything that they know to be wrong, then please let me know so that I can adjust it.

**"****This hour I tell things in confidence.**

**I might not tell everybody, but I will tell you.**

**I have learned that to be with those I like is enough.**

**To resist much. Obey little.**

**We were together. I forget the rest."**

-Walt Whitman

**SLAPTON SANDS**

_2__nd__ October, 1943_

_Dear Sam,_

_The worst has happened – I'm now officially in Britain. I'm only kidding, it's not so bad. We got off the Queen Mary yesterday, landed in Scotland and then had to get straight on a train all the way down into England... because, apparently, we weren't sick and tired enough of cramped quarters. It was only ten hours or so though, so it ain't so bad – you'd barely get out of Kansas for that!_

_Britain's damn small, and bizarrely cute, too. You'd like it. It's straight out of a fairytale, I swear, all rolling hills and little houses with thatched straw roofs and horse-and-carts. A lot of history too. I'll try and pick up some books to send back; Tidworth Barracks, where we are, has got a real crazy past. I'm glad to be back on solid ground, though, even if everything stinks of horse manure here. That boat over was the single worst thing I've ever had to endure. Thousands of us, all crammed in as high as the ceiling, bunks upon bunks, and nothing to do. Gosh, Sammy, and there weren't even any bookshelves for us! _

_No, you know I'm real proud of you, right? Don't let anyone at school mess with you, or you tell them I'll come back from Normandy with a bullet with their name on it. You can pretend I'm infantry. Don't worry though, you'll knock all those other kids dead. You're the smartest I ever knew, that's for sure. Good luck with your first day – I'm just sorry I can't be there to see it. I'll write again soon. Bitch._

_T-4 Sergeant Winchester_

_91W1O, Company D, 104__th__ Medical Regiment_

_29__th__ Infantry Division_

_United States Army_

**2****nd**** April, 1944**

The polished metal of the copper stripe looks beautifully neat against the crisp starch of Castiel's collar, if he says so himself. He smoothes his worn necktie against the front of his dress shirt, not out of habitual vanity, but because if tonight is going to be the first time he is seen wearing this pin, he'd like to at least look presentable.

There is a disruptive clatter against the bedroom door, followed by the creak of someone sticking their head in. "Hey, First Lieutenant Novak," Inias says with deliberate emphasis on the new rank; Castiel can see Inias' grin reflected in the small mirror. "Can we get out of here or are you still busy checking yourself out?"

"Do you want me to pull rank on you? Because I can do that now, you know." Castiel glances one last time over his appearance before turning to face Inias, who is leaning casually against the doorjamb. Castiel holds his arms out a little awkwardly. "How do I look?"

"Like a perfectly handsome asshole. Now let's hit the road, _please_," Inias insists. He jabs a threatening finger in Castiel's direction, eyes narrowing. "I swear to you, if all the pretty girls are gone, I'm going to make _you _dance with me – I refuse to have a repeat of Fort Blanding. I _refuse._"

Castiel's lips twitch near a smile – "Fort Blanding," he says with nostalgia – but follows Inias down the rickety wooden staircase, calling a warm farewell to the owner of the house in which he is lodging, as he passes – a dowdy old woman holding a near-erotic relationship with Earl Grey tea, who kindly remarks once again on what a dashing figure he makes before he gets to the front door – and then together he and Inias head down the narrow street towards the village green.

They've been in England just under eight months, and tonight the whole second battalion, as far as Castiel can tell, has got weekend-passes into Plymouth for what promises to be a couple of days of drunken rowdiness, bar fights, and sleazy attempts to get with English girls. They've all been briefed to _play nicely with the natives_, as it were, but Castiel highly doubts that'll be happening. Either way, he has a sinking feeling in his gut that the over-exuberance in handing out this many weekend passes can only mean one thing – a lot of gruelling training in the weeks to come.

"Nice digs, by the way," Inias comments, as they walk down the road in the dimming light of dusk – in step, out of sheer habit – and he glances back over his shoulder at the little brick house where Castiel's lodger is already drawing the black-out curtains, a good three hours before curfew. He shoots Castiel a teasing smirk. "Who'd you sleep with to get that?"

"Actually, I didn't get it through entirely honest means," Castiel admits sheepishly, and, uniform rules be damned, pushes his hands into the pockets of his dress pants. "It was Captain Milton's but he handed it over to me as a reward for my promotion – said he wanted to _be closer to nature_, or something."

"Closer to nature?" Inias sighs. "I swear, that guy gets any closer to nature, he'll turn into a goddamn tree."

Castiel laughs a little at that, shaking his head. "That's just what we need," he says. "Then I'll have to carry his goddamn roots around everywhere for him instead of just carrying his paperwork, his company..."

"His balls," Inias chimes in, and they both have to hurriedly transform their infantile giggling into coughs as they catch sight of an unfamiliar Major striding down the street and have to salute with the utmost sincerity.

It's a two-minute walk into town, where the train station is already overcrowded with men of every shape and size, officers and enlisted men alike buzzing with anticipation – _"shit, how much skirt d'you reckon there's gonna be" _and_ "Plymouth... is that like London?" _and_ "I swear to god, if I see that guy again..." _– and hopping impatiently to the edge of the platform to peer into the distance to see if the train is anywhere nearby.

Castiel and Inias weave their way through the crowd to find a place to stand, greeting members of their company with a wave, and members of their platoons with greater enthusiasm, as they pass by.

"Evening, sir!" a couple of the soldiers of one-platoon call, raising hands to make themselves known to their platoon commanders; one yells, "Hey, Lieutenant, you on the prowl tonight?" and it sounds like Fitzgerald, but Castiel couldn't quite be sure. There are a couple of shouts of congratulations from those who either know about his promotion or have spotted the new pin, but, nice as it all is, Castiel is grateful when the train pulls in and kick-starts a new surge of excitement to distract them.

Castiel and Inias find Freddie Hester and Adrian Alistair have staked out a set of four seats in the first carriage, which are been fiercely defended on the grounds that 'they're officers-only seats', but which Castiel and Inias take for themselves. There are a lot of soldiers trying to get onto a very small train, and as much as Castiel dislikes Lieutenants Hester's and Alistair's ideas about the special privileges of rank, he's glad to have somewhere to sit.

"So is anyone else getting a distinct feeling that a whole-battalion weekend-pass can't bode well for the future?" Inias says, grimacing as he leans back in his seat.

"I'm gonna call it right now and say that we're gonna have to do another goddamn beach assault," Alistair predicts, and he props up his feet on the edge of Castiel's chair. "That's my vote. Beach assault or bust."

"No, I think we'll be moving out," Castiel says thoughtfully, looking out the window as the train begins to huff and puff ever louder, picking up speed through the low green hills. "Heading for a bigger town so they can start organising us. That's my bet."

"Beach assault," Alistair insists, jabbing a finger in Castiel's direction. His muddy boots shunt on Castiel's seat, flaking dirt threateningly close to his dress pants; Castiel angles his legs away. "I'm telling you. Ten dollars, right now."

"No thanks." Castiel pushes his hands into his pockets, feels around for the crumpled lid of his tin cigarette case, flicks at the dented corners for something to focus on. He turns more pointedly away from Alistair.

"C'mon, Novak. Ten dollars." Alistair stretches back, folding his arms lazily across his chest – the gesture shoves his boots more emphatically into Castiel's chair, jolting him sideways, and on top of that, Castiel can now smell dog-shit caught in the rubber treads. Alistair cocks his head to one sided, taunting. "You got ten bucks, haven'tcha? How much d'you wanna put on it?"

"I don't want to put anything on it," Castiel says, "except maybe putting your feet on the damn floor."

Alistair's eyebrows lift high and mocking to his hairline. "Alrighty, Missy, keep your panties on." He chuckles to himself, but obediently settles his boots back on the metal ridge of the train floor.

In his peripheral vision, Castiel sees Alistair's eyes flicker over the First Lieutenant pin on Castiel's collar – and thank God for it – before he turns to engage Hester in conversation. Inias joins in with some one-liner joke that has them all in stitches, easing the tension straight out of the carriage like a flattening tyre. Castiel keeps staring out the window.

It's just under an hour's train ride to Plymouth, a big city located in what some of the younger soldiers like to call the ass-crack of nowhere. It's not so bad; it's still bustling with life, even as the curfew draws nearer. As the train chortles and rattles on through the housing estates towards the station, Castiel can pick out a great deal of buildings that have been damaged by German air attacks, but it doesn't seem to have dampened the spirits of the people he can see through the window. More to the delight of the other men, there is a certain part of town with a lot of fluorescent red lights on brick-wall building-sides.

The train pulls in; a whistle shrills; the men fight to be off first, jostling for position and slamming friends and colleagues against the rails of the platform as they get off, eager to be the first to get their hands on the best that British night-life has to offer. Castiel and Inias wait patiently in their seats to be let off, long after Hester and Alistair have disappeared in the crowd; they exchange a glance.

"Well, it ain't Bedford," is all Inias can say, and Castiel smiles.

As they get off the train, they are thrust almost immediately into a concrete roundabout, signs pointing off in various directions, with a tired little park, half-hearted daffodils clinging to the last lukewarm remnants of spring. It's a ten minute walk in any given direction to get to a bar, and so they set off in the wake of the other men's screaming whoops.

They find a street not too far away, with several little wooden-fronted pubs with signs boasting _ale _and _music_ and _country heritage_ lining either side of the road. The yells of rowdy soldiers can already be heard from the few nearer to the station, and so Castiel and Inias stray a little further down the street to find somewhere quieter.

The place they choose is still fairly busy, but containing a healthy mix of Canadian and Belgian soldiers, as well as locals, rather than entirely occupied by a 2nd Battalion brawl. Castiel doesn't recognise the music being played, but it's fast and brassy and he likes it, and the alcohol prices aren't too bad. It'll do.

They order beer, reconciling themselves to the fact that it won't be as good as the stuff back home, and find a small table to sit down at that isn't too sticky. They sit for a few minutes, just enjoying the time away from HQ, sipping at the froth of their beers and digging in their pockets for a light for their cigarettes. The air inside the pub is already hazy with tobacco smoke; a few more fags won't do any harm. There are girls flitting at the edge of the dance-floor, swaying in time with the music and chattering amongst themselves, and Inias is wasting no time in checking them out.

"See anything you like?" Castiel asks, sipping carefully at the froth at the top of his beer.

Inias looks back at him with a sly smile. "Do you?"

Castiel kicks him under the table.

There is the light sound of someone delicately clearing their throat, and Castiel looks up, startled, to see a young, pretty girl resting her fingertips on the edge of their table. "Now," she says, her accent decidedly British, if her style of dress hadn't been enough to give her away, "what's a nice boy like you doing in a place like this?"

Castiel shakes his head, and looks down at his glass before awkwardly excusing himself. "I'm here with the rest of my battalion," he says. "Weekend passes, you know – well, I suppose you don't. I'm here to supervise, although they're all in a different bar... but I'm sure that if a fight or anything starts, we'll hear it and then we can—"

"What my buddy here is failing to say," Inias interrupts sweetly, sliding an arm around Castiel's shoulder with all the charm of a million-dollar celebrity, "is how do you do."

Castiel presses his lips together. Right. Inias has told him a hundred thousand times that no-one is interested in the whole story; it was only a pick-up line. Inias was somehow born with all these things engrained into his system; even though Castiel is still looking down at the table, he can just _feel _the overwhelming sweetness of Inias' smile. It's times like these that Castiel is convinced they could just send Inias into Germany and he'd straight-up sweet-talk the Nazis out of Europe.

Inias releases his grip on Castiel and instead slides past to take one of the girl's hands. "Second Lieutenant Inias Wallace, at your service."

"Well, Lieutenant Wallace," she says coyly. "Do you dance?"

"I don't know what a dahnce is," he says, mimicking the long smoothness of her BBC vowels all teasing shyness as he stands, turns, and starts leading her out into the middle of the floor, "but, honey, if you asked me to _dance_, we might be singing a whole other tune."

Castiel can't help but laugh into his beer, lifted halfway to his lips, as Inias and his latest catch swing out towards the centre of the room, light as the songs crackling from the victrola in the corner. The bar's dim, and growing more crowded too, as the evening gets on. The soldiers – American, Canadians, Belgians, Dutch and Poles alike – now outnumber the Brits, who don't look too happy with the newcomers seducing all their women, but that's their problem.

To be perfectly honest, there are even a couple of young women a few tables over, eyeing Castiel over their cigarettes who, judging by the heavy looks they're shooting him, wouldn't mind a spin with him _at all_ – but Castiel doesn't dance. It's his own business.

Dancing or no dancing, Castiel is perfectly content to sit at his own table in the midst of the chaos, doing nothing more than sipping watered-down Blitz-ration beer and eyeing the members of his battalion who have filtered into the bar, lest they misbehave, but apparently the universe has other plans for him. Some idiot drunkard crashes into the back of Castiel's chair when he's just lifting his beer, and so Castiel is slammed painfully forwards into the edge of his table, where he has just slopped most of his beer.

"Shit," exclaims the asshole behind Castiel. "I'm sorry, sweetheart, I didn't see you there—"

Castiel twists around in his seat, eyes narrowing, and that's when the asshole – tall asshole – tall, freckled asshole – finally looks down and sees who he's bumped into. His eyes widen, and then his face cracks into a grin.

"Aw, crap," he says, rolling a hand over his jaw like the whole damn situation is the funniest thing he's ever heard. "Sorry, man – I dunno where sweetheart came from. I just thought..." He suddenly trails off, and it's no coincidence that his loss of heart is perfectly timed to the moment when he notices the pin on Castiel's collar. "Oh – shit. Sir, I'm sorry, I thought you were—"

"Enlisted?" Castiel guesses. "Or a woman?"

The smallest of smiles twists the soldier's mouth, like he can't even hold it back, and it's not _cute_ and it's certainly not _respectful_, that's damn clear – and then he says, "A bit of both, to be honest," all tipsy bravado and boyish cheek, and that is just all Castiel can stand.

He pushes his chair back from the table, stands, and turns. The asshole soldier is inches taller than Castiel is, built more heavily, drunker, but Castiel is settling straight-spined into the patented officer posture of _don't-fuck-with-me_ and he's been reliably informed that he could take up a whole career in making jackasses wish they'd never been born.

"I'm sorry," he says, his tone indicating anything but apology, "but what did you say your name was, _Sergeant_?" He makes a point of letting his eyes fall to the pin on the soldier's collar, showing him how easy it is to make note of rank before you speak; makes a point of enunciating it extra clearly: _Ser-geant, _like he's worthless.

"Dean Winchester, sir." The sergeant draws himself up to full height, as though he's at attention, which would be appropriate – except that he sways like a hurricane, because he's at least a whole beer keg over the limit, and still smirking like he's pretty fucking pleased with himself.

Castiel looks him dead in the eye. "Sergeant Winchester," he says, "you owe me a drink." And with that, he pushes his mostly-empty beer glass into Dean's chest – ignores the way it bounces off muscle, ignores the thin line of moisture it leaves on the fabric of his shirt – and he tips his head a little, expectantly. "Get to it, Sergeant. I'm thirsty."

That's when the problem really starts. Castiel can feel the anticipation of it swelling in his gut – the way Dean grins wider, tugs his teeth across his lower lip like he's biting back a laugh, rocks on his heels so he's bigger, moving, threatening. He's drunk. He's teetering, dangerous. And he's over-confident.

Dean chuckles once. Tilts his head to the side, arrogantly contemplative. "Sure thing. You want a sherry, darling?"

Castiel almost flinches. The sheer audacity of it is like a slap in the face; Castiel won over the respect and good humour of the majority of his company early and has, in some ways, been spoilt by not having to deal with cocky little dipshits too frequently since they started out two years ago. Castiel, to his own credit, doesn't flinch, but the ever-useless words of someone who has just lost all his authority – the words "Exc_use_ me?" – slip out of his mouth before he can stop them.

That shit-eating grin only spreads wider. "Or are you more a gin-'n'-tonic kinda girl?"

"Listen closely," Castiel is suddenly saying, barely noting the words coming past his lips but feeling the venomous weight of them, "because I'm only going to say this once." He takes a step closer until they are barely inches apart. His voice is low, barely audible in the noise of the bar, and cutting. "I don't care who the hell you think you _were_ or might still be, but when you put on that uniform, you give yourself over to the command of the United States Army, and, by extension, to those who command and outrank you – _Sergeant_."

Castiel leans closer, holding Dean's eyes – just enough to make him uncomfortable – and he lifts his eyebrows. He lowers his voice, and he can feel the way Dean has to strain a little closer to hear him.

"I've noted your unit, rank, and name, and I'm still considering whether I should speak to your commanding officer about this, but I think I've decided that it's all just a big drunken misunderstanding... and I would recommend that you don't give me any reason to change my mind." Still holding Dean's eyes, Castiel leans closer – just enough to make him uncomfortable – and he lifts his eyebrows. He lowers his voice further still, and he can feel the way Dean has to strain a little closer to hear him. "Do I make myself clear?"

Dean's jaw tightens, almost imperceptibly, at the hinge, as he realises that he's lost. "Crystal."

"Crystal?"

"Crystal, _sir._"

Dean Winchester's eyes are green. Unblinking.

Castiel takes a step back, satisfied. "Apology accepted, _sweetheart_," he says, his voice dangerously light and saccharine. He lifts his glass in one hand and shakes it a little so that the small amount of beer still foaming at the bottom sloshes from side to side. "And I'm still thirsty."

Without further ado, Dean takes the glass from Castiel's hand. Oddly, there is no hostility or resentment in his eyes; more unsettlingly still, there is an evenness to them, like glass, or like he's come to some conclusion about Castiel already and is prepared to stand by it. "You want another drink, Lieutenant?" he drawls.

"Yes, please. Whatever beer's on tap."

Dean nods once. He looks down at the glass in his hand, still containing a fair measure of beer at the bottom. He stands motionless for such a long time, strangely at odds with the whirl and bustle of dancers behind him, that Castiel is about to ask if everything is alright. Before Castiel has even opened his mouth, however, Dean's eyes flicker up to fix upon Castiel's, and then he lifts Castiel's rejected glass to his lips to drain it.

Castiel is speechless watching the beer slide into his open wetness of his mouth, the sleek pull of the muscles in his throat - and then it's over and Dean hands the glass back. The glass glitters damply where his lips were.

"Yes, sir," Dean says smoothly, arching an eyebrow as though daring Castiel to reprimand him, and then he turns away. Castiel sees him digging in his pocket for cash or change, and after that he is lost amongst the crowd of others waiting for a drink at the bar.

Numbly, Castiel sits down.

"What the hell was all that about?" Inias' voice comes from behind Castiel, sounding slightly blurry with his first drink and rough with tobacco smoke.

Castiel turns back on his chair to look at Inias, who is flushed from the heat of dancing, and who frowns at him like he's attempted to rob the bar. "What?" he says distractedly.

Inias rolls his eyes. He leans across the table and taps some of the ash from the end of his cigarette. "Word to the wise," he says conspiratorially, "try not to get on the wrong side of the ones who'll be stitching us back together in the future."

Grumbling, Castiel reaches into his pocket for his own cigarette tin. He'd already seen that Dean was a combat medic from when he took note of his regiment, but it hardly excused his behaviour. "I think I'd rather bleed out than let that guy sew me up," Castiel says sourly, picking a cigarette out of the tin. "You got a light?"

Inias' pretty girl swings back over as he passes over the lighter; she drums her fingers lightly on his shoulders, peeks around at him and says coyly, "Goodness, are you tired of dancing already? I thought I'd always heard that you Yanks had _stamina_."

The look that Inias throws Castiel is something along the lines of _I've got my hands full with this one_, but he doesn't look all that aggrieved by it. "Keep that for now," he tells Castiel with the twist of a smile. "I'll be right back."

Sheltering the flickering flame in cupped hands, Castiel lights his cigarette and watches Inias dip and twist through the crowd. The record has changed; it's slower now, and they dance close together. Castiel snaps the lighter shut, and tucks both it and his tin into the pocket of his dress pants.

A weight of presence nearby and a long shadow alerts Castiel that there's someone behind him; he turns to see Dean standing over him, bearing a tall glass of beer. Here, from this angle, the insignia of the medical red cross is more clearly visible on his upper arm.

Dean leans past and sets the glass down on the table. "Enjoy."

"I'm sure I will." Castiel picks it up and takes a long drink. He is bizarrely conscious of Dean's fingerprints left in the condensation on the glass. "Thank you."

"'Welcome," Dean grunts. He folds his arms across his chest. For a few seconds he says nothing, rocking a little where he stands, and scowling, but then he says, "That was the last of this month's wages. I was gonna spend it on some girl."

Castiel eyes him. "Some girl?"

"Any girl." There's that twisting start of a smile again, flash of teeth over his lower lip. He shrugs, and his eyes drift to the occupants of the dance-floor, presumably seeking out a partner. Out of the blue, and without ever looking away from the dance-floor, he asks, "Do you dance?"

Castiel stares, not entirely sure what's being asked of him. "No."

"Huh." Dean nods in the direction of the dancing. "There's a couple dolls in the corner who look like they wouldn't say no to a dance even if you couldn't buy 'em a drink," he says, seemingly to himself, but he looks down a second later, catches Castiel's eye. "You sure?"

"I don't dance," Castiel says flatly.

Dean pulls a face, like there's no pleasing some people, and doesn't waste another second leaving to go find some pretty thing to spin around the room. Lifting the cigarette back to his lips, Castiel watches him – out of boredom, curiosity maybe – and sees that he's successful in his pursuits. After a short buzz and a hum, the victrola has picked out the next song on the record, and this one is faster, toe-tapping. A girl with curled hair and a pink dress blushes sweetly from the side of the room but can't resist the invitation of Dean's extended hand; she takes it and follows him.

Castiel exhales smoke, slowly. He can hear Inias' chatter somewhere nearby, the words unclear under the swell of the music, but the charm in it evident. Castiel can't find him in the crowd, although that could be because he doesn't really try. He's watching Dean's fingers curl into the girl's hand, guiding her back into the throng of people, twirl her out and back in. He's watching them laugh about something he's whispered in her ear.

It looks like fun, Castiel will admit. It's almost a shame he doesn't join in, but he really, really does not dance.

His eyes fall to the shape of Dean's lips singing along to the music, the solid breadth of his calloused hands on the girl's waist as he twists her from one side to the other, the taut stretch of his shirt over his shoulders as he moves. Castiel tears his eyes away, lifts his cigarette the last few inches to his lips and takes a long pull, letting the sharp sting of it in his throat wash over him.

Like he said – it's his own business.

**3****rd**** April 1944**

Reveille next morning is oh-six-hundred hours, much to the displeasure of the majority of 2nd Battalion, having been trying to squeeze as much alcohol as possible into the meagre hours between supper and curfew – particularly in Inias' case, who has been designated with the role of ensuring that all the men get up on time, and who probably drank more than the rest of the regiment put together. Fortunately, Castiel only drank one pint of watered-down ration beer – one and a half, if you include the one that Sergeant Winchester threw all across the table – and so he's washed, shaved, and uniformed by ten to six, and able to do so without having to pray for the love of the Almighty to help him through it, either.

His elderly lodger offers him bread and dripping for breakfast, which he accepts, and a cup of tea, which he graciously refuses, and he runs into Antony Milton on road down to battalion HQ.

"Captain," Castiel greets, snapping into a salute.

"Morning, Novak. You heading to HQ?" Milton says airily, returning the gesture and then waving a hand to invite Castiel to walk with him.

"Yes, sir." They fall into step on the narrow road out of town and Castiel feels that he need to make some awkward attempt at small-talk. He clears his throat. "Did you have a weekend pass, sir?"

"No, I had to discuss some regimental rearrangements with Captain Everett."

"Ah."

They walk in silence. Shorn sheep huddle together unhappily in the light morning rain; a distribution truck roars past them, laden with what looks like enough K-rations to end world poverty.

"It rains a lot here, doesn't it?" Castiel comments, looking up at the heavy sky and dark clouds.

Milton ignores him. "Captain Everett was thinking of splitting up a few companies of the 104th Medical, spreading them across the infantry divisions. Apparently they're allowing for Operation Neptune to rake in a lot of casualties."

"Okay," Castiel says hesitantly, unsure where he comes into this – because he must come into this somewhere, since Milton is hardly the type to share and care for the sake of it. "Will I...?"

"Baker's getting five new medics – four ninety-one-whiskeys, one ninety-one-victor. Your platoon will be getting one new man."

"Yes, sir. Any names I'll need to familiarise myself with?"

"None that I know yet. Everett's still trying to work out the logistics of it. A few companies will need to be completely reorganised, although we should be fine." By this time, they're coming to the rows of battered corrugated buildings of battalion HQ, the gravel parade-ground and the neat rows of soldiers already in their places. Milton pauses. "I promise that as soon as I know, you'll know."

"Thank you, sir."

Milton tugs on the fore-facing peak of his garrison cap with one hand, smoothes one side of it with the other. "I had a briefing last night which implied that today we might be moving out to a new base along the coast, somewhere with a port," he says. "I'll speak to our superiors about it. If you take the company for calisthenics – nothing too messy – then I'll be back by oh-nine-hundred hours to brief you further about the battalion's movements. We may need to pack up altogether."

"Yes, sir."

Attention-snap-salute, and Milton is gone.

Damnit. When Castiel was discussing the meaning of the whole-battalion weekend pass with the other lieutenants on the train, he hadn't actually hoped that he'd be right. They're already on the coastline for intensive assault training in preparation for Operation Neptune, and moving somewhere bigger, with more boat-holding capacity, can only mean that the deadline for the Operation in question is closer than ever before.

He turns to see his company hurrying down to meet him, groaning amongst themselves and trying to arrange themselves into some form of sobriety.

"Morning, gents," he says as they fall into parade formation. He glances back along the path into Slapton, where he can see Inias, plus Lieutenant Hester and First Sergeant Milligan, all nursing their hangovers. Castiel returns to face the men in front of him. "Did you all have a good night out?"

"Oh yeah," laughs Private Gallagher, throwing some of his friends a knowing look. "Ask Alfie what he got up to, sir – he'll tell you he, uh, _lost _something real precious."

Private Wilson flushes bright red in the first row, but grins sheepishly. "What can I say, sir?" he says. "The British girls like me better than they did back home."

Someone near the back lets out a cough that sounds suspiciously like _Fort Blanding_ – Inias, who has only just arrived, frowns unhappily, and is received by teasing pats on the shoulder and patronising apologies.

"What happens in Florida stays in Florida," Corporal Ash Lowell says mock-gravely, bowing his head as though to respect the dead – the death of Inias' dignity, maybe – and some privates nearby cackle amongst themselves.

"Alright, calm down," Castiel says. "You're standing at ease, not back at the bar. Sort yourselves out."

The men of Baker Company fall quiet and apologetically shuffle into more military positions, bracing their hands behind their back, and listen quietly for their next instructions.

"I'm not going to stand you to attention because I need speed in getting you all back up to the town," Castiel tells them, his eyes flickering across them all. "You'd best all be holding sweetly onto last night's memories – your stomachs, too. Three hours calisthenics drill. I want you all back here in combats, with rifles and webbing, in ten minutes. Any questions?"

No questions; just some moans of complaint from the men feeling bold enough to gripe in the absence of Captain Milton. When dismissed, they turn on their heels to run back up to their lodgings – Inias pausing at the front first to tease, _"ooh, Lieutenant, I love it when you get all bossy" _– and then Castiel, too, must double back to his house to get changed.

The last eight months in England have been tough but fun, as the men smoked like chimneys, drank like sailors, and slept around like the world is ending – which, hell, maybe it is – and it's been enjoyable, at least. However, as Castiel runs up the stairs to find his boots and combats, he is gripped with the distinct sense that the fun is over now.

**10****th**** April 1944**

Seven days a week, Baker Company have physical training, map-reading, close combat drills, weapons cleaning, and simulation exercises of every scenario possible. Some days they're fighting through forests, other days through villages (accidentally terrorising the local townspeople when they take a wrong turn), and one day they have to get an artillery platoon over a fast-moving river, which ends... badly, to say the least. The only consolation to be taken is that at least the company has trained together long enough to be able to work together through every crisis that is thrown at them, be it Corporal Campbell's shitty attempts at navigation or the goddamned boggy British countryside. Castiel, Inias and the other platoon commanders know their men and how to work them, and a lead-by-example methodology ensures cooperation and understanding; there are fuck-ups, of course, but none so drastic that they can't be resolved with a few sharp words and the threat of latrine duty – or so Castiel thinks.

They are just oiling their weapons and packing in preparation for a night navigation exercise when Captain Milton is called aside by regimental S-1. Castiel watches their conversation in the distance, and then, later, watches them walk off together, still deep in discussion.

"What do you think is going on?" Inias asks, following Castiel's gaze.

"Probably something to do with the medical transfers, I'd guess," Castiel says. "Pass the rag, will you?"

"What medical transfers?" Joe Harvelle noses in, handing over a grubby scrap of cloth before Inias can, as his way into the conversation.

"It's not officially any of your business yet, Corporal," Castiel says pointedly, but he takes the rag and carefully gets to wiping down the greasy housing mechanism of his rifle, and continues with calculated diplomacy, "but if you were to find out that part of the 104th Medicals is being split up and spread between the infantry, you'd didn't hear it from me."

"Wait, so how many new medics do you think we'll get?" Private Gallagher joins in.

Castiel frowns. "Didn't _any _of your mothers teach you not to eavesdrop?"

"No, sir," Private Wilson chips in from the far side of the group, not even looking up from readjusting the contents of his haversack.

Inias just laughs, shaking his head, and Castiel opens his mouth to dismiss the topic with the age-old _need-to-know-basis-and-you-don't_ line, when he hears Milton yelling for platoon commanders.

Castiel gets up, moving the disjointed parts of his rifle off his own combat jacket onto someone else's, so that he can shrug into the rest of his uniform before he and Inias jog over to Milton.

"Captain?" Castiel asks, saluting, and then falls silent when he notices the rows of uniformed men lined up behind his commanding officer – all of them adorned with the red cross of a combat medic. "Are these the new transfers, sir?"

Milton makes a point of ignoring him and instead looks towards the other platoon leaders still hurrying in their direction. Lieutenants Freddie Hester and Adrian Alistair jog up, salute, and stand at attention beside Castiel, and only then does Milton speak.

"At ease, Lieutenants," he says, folding his hands behind his back, and he waits until they have changed into the more comfortable position before addressing them. "Baker Company has been assigned five new medics. Three-platoon will be getting two medics – Hester, you'll have a ninety-one-victor as well as a ninety-one-whiskey; the rest of your platoons will be assigned one each. So – Lieutenant Hester, you'll be assigned one Private Nolan and a Lance Corporal du Mort—"

Castiel tunes out momentarily, because in the midst of all the combat medics being attached to their division, he can pick out the five already bearing the grey and blue insignia of the 116th, standing closest behind Captain Milton, and – mother_fucker_ –

"—but it shouldn't be any hassle... and Lieutenant Novak, you're being assigned one—"

"Sergeant Winchester," Castiel says flatly.

The asshole is even taller, even broader, somehow, in daylight, and he has this arrogant little twist of a smile on his lips, despite being at attention. Something like a shiver traces its fingertips up Castiel's spine.

"Is there a problem, Lieutenant?" Milton asks, his tone cold and clipped, unhappy with having been interrupted.

"No, sir." Castiel straightens, remembering himself. "We've met, is all."

"Then he should make an easy addition to your platoon," Milton says pointedly – meaning, _this is beyond your control, Novak, so you'd better just deal with it._

Castiel swallows and sets his jaw.

Milton then goes on to explain that the medics will have their own separate training, of course, but that much of time, they'll be accompanying their new companies on training exercises in order to try and integrate – starting with the night navigation exercise.

Great. Just when Castiel's platoon has reached a stage where they can work together like clockwork, fluid in light or dark, responding to silhouettes and signals almost by instinctual understanding... and now they've got to fit in this rude, disruptive _hillbilly_.

Castiel doesn't voice any of that, however. He remains rigid and obedient until dismissed, and then his eyes flash only briefly over to meet Sergeant Winchester's before he turns to head back to his platoon.

Footsteps fall heavy behind him, catching up, and then – "Hey, sweetheart! Fancy seeing you here!"

Castiel spins back to face him fast, eyes narrowed, and doesn't let himself flinch back when he finds he's accidentally put himself in much closer proximity to Dean than he had ever intended. Dean, on the other hand, recoils back a little at suddenly finding their faces four inches apart; his eyes widen with surprise, and in the low, grey light of a cloudy afternoon, they look greener than ever.

"Winchester, right?" Castiel challenges.

"Yes, sir."

Dean's tongue darts out nervously to wet his lips. Something in Castiel is now aware that his own lips are very dry; he itches to mimic the movement, but he doesn't.

"Winchester, it goes against all my instincts, but I'm going to give you a chance here," Castiel says, his expression hard. "I can promise you right now, though, that if you really fuck with me, I will _personally_ make sure that the only way you ever see Normandy is as a shit-stain on the bottom of my boot. Understood?"

"Sir, I was drunk, and I'm sorry for any—"

"Are you still drunk?" Castiel interrupts.

Dean frowns. "No, sir—"

"Then stop calling me sweetheart."

His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows; his eyes flicker uncertainly over Castiel's face. "Yes, sir."

Satisfied that he has put the fear of God into the cocky medic, Castiel gives a short nod. "You're walking a very thin line, Dean," Castiel tells him firmly, holding his gaze. "Don't make me regret this."

Then Castiel lets his gaze drop from Dean's face, taking in the neatness of his shirt, the press of his combat pants, the weight of his clothes on his soldiers, the shadow of the bulk underneath... he's tidy; well-turned out. Castiel cannot find a single thing to fault. Somehow, his eyes snagging on the stretch of cotton over his chest, the freckled divot of his throat just above his collar, Castiel finds his way back to Dean's eyes.

Castiel tilts his chin up. "Welcome to one-platoon, sergeant."

**15****th**** April 1944**

Much to Castiel's disappointment, Dean Winchester fits almost effortlessly in with the others. He's in good shape, keeping up easily on company runs and marches, and never once whines about the weight of the battlefield medical kit on his back, even when some of the other combat medics do; he talks constantly, and at length, about his little brother back home; he's charming and he full-body laughs like a tidal wave, winning most of the men over with jokes so obscene that Castiel can feel himself go red listening to them; most surprisingly, however, is that Dean _listens_. In any drill, Castiel only has to twist back and call Dean's name, as an afterthought, mid-breath through an onslaught of orders, and he's there, ready to simulate field operations or a cas-evac – whatever's needed.

On-duty, Dean is fast, smart, sharp, has an intuitive understanding of what is needed at any given time, and is easily one of the best medics that Castiel has ever worked with.

Off-duty, Dean is a royal pain in the ass. He's brash, loud, disrespectful, and seems to take a perverse joy in embarrassing Castiel.

One day, after training, Castiel overhears Dean wagering '_a special Lieutenant Novak strip-tease'_ in a poker game in place of actual money, and when Castiel heads straight over to tear him a new one, Dean just blinks innocently at him and says, "But, sir, it's my _birthday_", much to the amusement of the men he was playing with. Another time, Dean wolf-whistles as the company is lining up in the mess hall, and Castiel stumbles; this time, when Castiel angrily lays into him, Dean just stares arrogantly back at him, waiting out the storm.

"He is the rudest, most frustrating person I have ever had to deal with," Castiel rages to Inias on a near-daily basis, and hates Dean even more the day when he breezes past at precisely the right moment to hear this and add, "Damn handsome, though." Inias snorts into his spaghetti at this, and then quickly rearranges his expression into something grave and disapproving when Castiel glares at him.

Thankfully, they keep very busy and there's little time for conversation – or arguments, for that matter. As well as training in field maintenance, basic survival, familiarisation with landing crafts, hand-to-hand combat, and weapons handling, they also find themselves being loaded onto battleships at least once a week for what Milton wittily calls '_invasion dress rehearsal' – _by which he means that they throw themselves into the ocean, haul themselves out and pretend to attack the beach... and then do it all over again.

It's exhausting, but Castiel's superiors promise that it's realistic, and that it will help them incalculably when the time comes to actually attack Normandy... whenever that is.

"I'm done," Alfie Wilson exclaims melodramatically, throwing himself down heavily onto the shingles after the last mock-invasion of the day. "I am so _done._"

"Aw, come on, there's no need for that," Corporal Mills says, although he also drops down to sit cross-legged on the sand and picks disdainfully at the sweat-sticky material of his combats. "We haven't even crossed the freakin' Channel yet."

"Yeah, exactly my point," Alfie groans, his voice muffled where he's hidden under his arm, slung over his face. "Jesus, after all of this, combat can't even be that bad."

"At least we'll only have to assault the actual beach once instead of _over _and _over _again," Gallagher joins in.

"Hey, I've got a joke for you guys," Castiel says, from where he is unlacing his boots one at a time to shake the water out. "What did the infantryman in Normandy say to the guy who wouldn't quit whining during training?" He tips his boot upside, watches the water slosh out, and then looks pointedly at the privates around him who are waiting for the punch line. "Nothing, because whiners don't get to go to Normandy."

Johnny Mills gives a short, sarcastic laugh, _ha-ha. _"That was hilarious, sir," he says dryly. "You should have your own show."

"Would that I could, Corporal, but unfortunately I have to command this little group of whiny infantrymen," Castiel says lightly, and he smiles as the platoon groan their offense and injury at the comment. "Right," he says, fastening his boots and standing. "Up you get. We've got to be back at HQ in ten minutes for Everett's briefing on beach terrain."

"I bet I can call it right now," Dean says, shrugging out of his combat jacket to shake the dirt off. He drapes it gracelessly over one arm, and starts ticking off his fingers. "Water. Sand. Rocks. Grass. Germans." He holds his arms out akimbo. "There. Briefing over."

Castiel throws him a disparaging look. "And you should be so lucky to get it in that order, Winchester."

The grin slides slowly from Dean's face, his features instead collecting into an expression of disgruntled resignation. "This briefing is a be-there-or-be-square kinda deal, isn't it?" he asks.

"No." Castiel stares at him. "Be there."

Someone to Castiel's other side chuckles to themselves; apparently the constant battles between Castiel and Dean Winchester have proved entertaining. That's all well and good for _them_, Castiel thinks as he re-shoulders his rifle, but they don't have to deal first-hand with Dean's dogged determination to undermine their every action.

"Right, let's go." Castiel jerks his head in the direction of the path back up to regimental HQ for his platoon to follow. "Ten minutes, everyone."

As he goes to leave, he gets a glimpse Dean shrugging back into his jacket, stretching to twist his arms back into the sleeves – the ruck and lift of his shirt where it's come untucked from his pants, the flash of his stomach, sweat glinting shiny in the cut of his hipbones – and it catches him off-balance, solid punch to the gut of all the things he's not allowed to feel.

Castiel turns away dry-mouthed, heart pounding, and he realises that Dean Winchester's arrogance might actually be the least of his problems.

**21****st**** April 1944**

Orders to move out for Falmouth, Cornwall, are set for the third of May, moving the whole division west by truck and train. Until then, Baker Company throw themselves into obstacle courses, infantry demolition ranges, field training exercises, and endless re-runs of the beach assault. They run until their legs shake with every step; they march further. They go on night-time combat operations, Castiel and Lieutenant Virgil huddling together in the darkness trying to make sense of their missions, and Captain Milton leads them through house-to-house attacks on small towns. They dig more foxholes than they'd ever care to dig, and Private Gallagher's partiality to tuneless renditions of _High Ho It's Off To Work We Go_ as they work sets off a trend that spreads through the company far faster than Castiel would have liked – as does the joke that Castiel would, logically, be the Snow White to their dwarves. They all vehemently deny any knowledge of who started the joke, but safe bets are on Winchester.

Things are starting to fit together. Having been individually trained and airbrushed for war, the men spend their time working fluidly as a company now, as a regiment, and, finally, as a whole division. Their superiors have been impressed with them so far, and now it's just time to fit them into the bigger picture.

They've been training as a division for several days, advancing slowly along the fields of Somerset and pretending to capture individual villages as they pass through. It's nearing six P.M and they are prepared to stage an attack on a tree-line on the far side of an open field, with the 116th on point and Baker Company leading.

They're just splitting off into platoons for advancing manoeuvres when Alfie Wilson twists his ankle.

The moment is absolute chaos, fast-paced and frenetic, heart-slamming – orders have already been given for suppressive artillery fire on the tree-line and Castiel is sprinting flat-out for the scream and scatter of mortar shells. The rattle of gunfire is deafening even with blank rounds; Castiel can feel his pulse inside his skull and in his helmet as an echo, and his mouth feels stuffed with dead leaves for all he can speak or swallow. He's coming up to the place where Captain Milton instructed him to split the platoon, lay down machine-gunners just back from the tree-line to cover the assault squad – he skids to a stop, drops to one knee and looks back to see his men coming up behind him – and that's when he sees Wilson go down.

He is running along between Corporal Mills and Private Spencer, and his foot just rolls over onto the side, and his whole leg goes out. He lets out a stifled cry and hits the ground hard, his rifle flying out of his hands and yanking at his neck when the sling pulls up short. As Castiel watches, waiting breathless for his machine-gunners to catch up, Wilson struggles to his feet. He successfully stands and manages to put some weight on his bad foot, but as he tries to run he nearly crumples again, and can only stagger forwards very haltingly.

This is an assault to familiarise the soldiers with having heavy artillery support even on small-scale attacks. This is not a low-level training exercise; no injuries are planned in and the medics tagged onto the end of each platoon are only going through the motions. By all estimations, it isn't a serious injury anyway – Wilson will just have to hobble until he can be given medical care after the exercise is over.

Dean has other plans.

As soon as Dean hears Wilson's shout, he stops and looks backwards for the source. He then immediately ditches the plan, so extensively explained by Castiel before the assault began, and runs back. He takes Wilson's rifle and haversack – positioning himself carefully so that the majority of Wilson's body is blocked from view by Dean's bulk – and then wraps an arm around Wilson's waist to help him walk.

Castiel's expression falls darkly. "Winchester! Get back here," he yells after him. Fucking hell, he doesn't have _time _for this. "Winchester!"

No response. Dean curls his arm a little more snugly around Wilson, hoists him a little higher to take most of the weight off his injured ankle, and walks him away. Faintly, he can be heard speaking – "it's okay, it's not even that bad, it's okay" – as they hobble away together, painfully slow for what is supposed to be a goddamned battle scenario.

"Jesus," Castiel mutters. That's all the time he can spare to watch Dean's disobedience. By then his gunners have taken up their positions and are hard at work, and he has to concentrate as the assault squad run on to flank the non-existent enemy.

From there it's easy, as there isn't actually any enemy to overcome and there's no real question of the outcome. It's a simple matter of paying attention to their movement so that Castiel can get Private Gallagher to radio into Captain Milton to avert the artillery fire. It's the last assault of the last day of an extended field exercise, and everyone is relieved by the prospect of heading back to Slapton for warm food and showers.

It takes some time to clear up and clear out, hundreds of men scattered all over the place, but eventually they are all assembled and ready to form up in column to march back. Just as Castiel is rounding up the last of his platoon from where they'd dispersed to have some of the rations from their webbing, he catches sight of Dean talking to a senior medical officer.

Castiel pauses just where he knows Dean will be able to see him out of the corner of his eye and waits until they finish talking. Then, once the other officer has left to pack up the temporary aid station, Castiel approaches him and asks, "What's going on?"

Dean doesn't look towards him. He points over at one of the trucks being packed up. "I asked if Alfie could get a ride back to base, keep the weight off his ankle. It doesn't make much sense to push him so hard in training that he won't be able to do the real thing, right?" he says, and at last glances over. "That march back would wreck him for sure."

Castiel hums in distracted agreement. "How is he?" he asks after a beat of hesitation.

"He'll be okay," Dean says. "It's pretty badly twisted but if we take him out of training for a week or so, let the swelling go down, then he should be fighting fit in no time."

For a few seconds they don't speak. They stand side by side, arm to arm, with Dean's head turned slightly so that he can look at Castiel's face, which Castiel pretends not to notice.

Dean studies Castiel for a good minute or so before he breathes a heavy sigh, twists away to look into the distance, where the last of the aid trucks are rattling their engines into motion. "I disobeyed a direct order, didn't I?" he asks, resigned.

Castiel's brow scrunches up in the middle, trying to find the right words. "Yeah, you did," is eventually what he settles with; it isn't beautiful, but it's true. "You disobeyed quite a few orders, actually."

"I'm sorry it happened."

Not sorry that he did it, Castiel notes. Casting off the blame as though it was something that simply couldn't be controlled – as though he had no choice but to help Wilson. Irresponsible – but then again, that's just Dean down to a tee, isn't it?

Castiel turns to face Dean, his eyes hard. "You don't get any bonus points for being a hero, Winchester," he tells him sharply.

Still facing forwards, Dean only shrugs and tilts his head a little to one side – the side closer to Castiel – when he says, "I'm a medic. Here I was thinking _hero _was part of the job description." He looks sideways over his shoulder at Castiel, that small smile starting quietly because he thinks he's so damn smart.

Unblinking, Castiel stares straight back. "It isn't." He does not smile. "You die, and that's it."

Dean's eyes drop to the ground in front of Castiel, the dry dirt and crushed grass curling. Then, very slowly, he turns his head back to face the front, in profile to Castiel. His jaw is a tight line. He doesn't say anything else.

In the silence that follows, Castiel is struck by the strangest feeling that he might have finally won something over Dean Winchester – but that it might have been the wrong victory to ask for. There is nothing more to be said in that moment; Castiel gives a short nod, straightens up, falls back into the role he's meant for.

"Form up, sergeant," he says, and the words are hollow on his tongue. Dean doesn't even look over. "We're marching out in five."

**25****th**** April 1944**

Whole-company calisthenics is led by Lieutenant Alistair, and he relishes the role.

Push-ups: forty. Two minutes. Sit-ups: seventy. Two minutes. Suicide sprints: six minutes, non-stop, over an increasing distance. Star-jumps – because Alistair is an asshole with a sadistic sense of humour. Two-mile run, full combat gear: under fourteen minutes or march back to the start and begin again. Repeat.

They're the fittest they've ever been; they're ready.

Every man is in his own world, but Castiel breaks. Tightening his stomach muscles to pull up forwards, he glances sideways. To his left is Staff Sergeant Milligan, then Private Fitzgerald; beyond that is Dean – squinting a little in the sun, brighter today than usual. Tongue just poking out between his lips in concentration. Sweat collecting on his temples, shiny below his jawline. As Castiel watches, a single droplet beads on the surface of his skin, shakes free with the motion of the sit-ups, and slides, almost painfully slowly, down the thick line of the tendon in his neck.

Castiel realise he's fallen out of time.

"—_fifty-six – fifty-seven – fifty-eight_—"

He tears his eyes away, swallowing hard, and throws himself back into the exercise. He clenches his stomach tighter; shouts a little louder.

**26****th**** April 1944**

There's a routine safety check for all soldiers – enlisted, officers, and non-fighting alike. Dean's are fluid and confident on the weapons he won't need to use. Long fingers, deft movements – safety catch, bolt handle, drag and _click_ – thumb sweeping over metal on the way down to the trigger, fire off the action, safety and dust cover. He has freckles on his knuckles.

Dean lowers the barrel and looks expectantly across at Castiel, waiting for commendation or criticism.

Castiel looks up from Dean's hands – now curled loosely around the stock – and clears his throat, tilting his chin up authoritatively. "It'll do."

With a short huff of satisfaction, Dean skims a hand along the length of the forestock to check the safety one last time before passing it over. Castiel's eyes fall to the lazily slide of Dean's fingers over wood, something dry and uncomfortable thickening in his throat, and almost doesn't notice the way that their hands brush when he is given the rifle. Almost. There's still the electric burn sizzling all under his skin.

Castiel looks away to the soldiers in his platoon still left in line to be checked. "Next?"

**29****th**** April 1944**

It's the last weekend before the regiment is moved out to Falmouth, and Companies Able, Baker and HQ have been allowed passes into the city. Despite the number of men being reduced drastically, the chaos on the journey over on the six o'clock train is just as bad – crammed into small carriages stinking of sweat and tobacco, chattering loudly, over-excited shouting and the first hurled insults for what promises to be resolved by a brawl later.

Castiel and Inias huddle together at the far back of the train, not having found seats this time, and cling to bars to desperately try and keep themselves upright as the train jolts and judders through the countryside. They discuss the imminent move west and what it will mean.

Castiel grimaces. "It means it's time to sharpen our bayonets."

Inias looks down his nose at Castiel, pulling into full-force his best impression of Captain Milton's disapproval. "Oh, but Lieutenant, your bayonet should already _be_ sharpened," he says, his voice a disappointed whine. Then his expression flickers a little, his mockery breaking up as a smirk twists across his face, and he adds an overly sweet, "_if you know what I mean_."

There is nothing Castiel can say in response to that. He looks disparagingly at Inias – in response to which, Inias just arches one comical eyebrow – and Castiel can only laugh, shaking his head. "You won't be sharpening my bayonet," Castiel tells him, giving up the attempt to keep a straight face.

"Oh, babe, you're such a tease," Inias chides him, reaching up to pat his cheek fondly. "I'll get you one day."

Castiel swats him away, retorting he'll do no such thing, and the train swings into the Plymouth railway station shortly afterwards. A bell rings and the men start to flow out of the carriages like a solid wave of bodies and noise. Inias and Castiel tag along at the end and set off on the now-familiar walk to the nearest pubs. The night is still early, the sky pale in its reds and purples, and the sound of evening vibrancy is already spilling out front doors with welcoming squares of the light inside.

They try a new pub this time, somewhere smaller, but it boasts a two-for-one offer on drinks and Glen Miller is playing inside, so it looks as good as anywhere else they've tried. They head in, weaving through the crowd gathered at the bar, and try to find a table. There's a small group of young men and women dancing in the far corner of the room, closest to the victrola – few enough that there shouldn't be any rowdy behaviour, but enough for Inias to dip his toes in the local water.

There is a loud uproar from the men standing at the bar, interspersed with laughter and drunken exclamations, and Inias looks over at Castiel. "Looks like we're the only sober men here, Cas," he says. He smiles, his face full of the sort of soft innocence that instantly wins over pretty girls and their stoic mothers, but Castiel knows the truth, the sly curve to it. "We'd better get to catching up."

Upon Inias' eager-faced insistence, Castiel reluctantly links arms with Inias and downs the first beer. They try a repeat with their second ones, but without great success; Castiel catches a glimpse of the scrunched-up expression of severe concentration on Inias' face and bursts out laughing, spraying beer disgustingly.

They sip the dregs, buy one more and then settle. They light up cigarettes, one after another, and smoke spirals loosely up from their mouths as they talk.

The time is eight P.M.

"—but that wasn't even how it happened," Inias is saying, his voice thick with alcohol as he speaks, "but you know Hester, the pressure gets to him and _bam - _he's all up in arms and thinking the only way to solve the problem is to scream himself hoarse, and there's no arguing with him once he starts." He heaves a sigh, and picks up his glass of beer to take a long sip. "Swear to god, that guy's gonna be the death of me."

"You may be more right than you think," Castiel answers. He's faring better than Inias for sobriety – still on his third glass to Inias' fourth, and taking it slowly. He raises his cigarette to his lips, takes a deep pull. The smoke ghosts over his lips as he continues. "Apparently he's going to be 2IC on the beach assault."

Inias' eyes widen over his glass. "No." He shakes his head vehemently. "He'll get us all killed. Over my dead body is he leading me anywhere."

"Over Milton's, more like," Castiel says.

"Yeah." Inias rolls his eyes and then gives a rueful smile. "I guess we'll just have to look after the Cap real carefully."

A short chuckle bursts out Castiel, because neither of them are particularly close to Captain Milton either, but at least Milton's competent. He mumbles an '_amen to that', _lifts his drink and takes another gulp. Inias needs no persuasion in taking a mouthful of agreement.

At that moment, there comes a distraction in the form of a loud, familiar voice drawling, "Evening, lieutenants" – and, without giving any further warning, Dean swings around the table to drop down onto an available stool at their table.

"Good evening," Inias says pleasantly, and he lifts his glass in Dean's direction as a further greeting.

Castiel, on the other hand, just stares at him, waiting. Dean doesn't seem bothered in the slightest; he grins like he's the happiest guy alive and drums his fingertips on the table-top along with the music. Eventually, when Castiel realises that Dean is not going to go away on the force of prayers alone, he lifts his eyebrows and asks, "Can I help you?"

Dean looks over at Castiel, mouth falling slightly open as though offended. "What?" he says, sounding so hurt by the question that it can only be an act. "Aww, come on. Am I not allowed to come over and hang out with my two best buddies?"

Castiel blinks at him, slowly, like the sight before him is physically painful. "We're not your buddies," he says. "Now what do you want?"

Sighing heavily, Dean holds his hands up in defeat. "Alright, you caught me," he admits, and he overbalances on his stool, leaning over sideways so that his face is suddenly close enough to Castiel's that the smell of cheap soap and tobacco smoke can be caught warmly on his skin. Castiel sets his jaw stubbornly against the easy allure of it; Dean's languid smile stretches a little wider. "See, sir, I was wondering if I could maybe call in that drink you owe me?"

Castiel frowns. "I don't owe you a drink."

Dean leans back, clapping his hands together. "Sure you do," he exclaims, on the border of a laugh. "I bought you one last time."

Right. Castiel exhales through his teeth. "Winchester," he says emphatically, as though he's speaking to a very small child, "you bought me a drink because you knocked mine over. Remember?"

"Oh." The grin slides from Dean's face; his brow crumples as the memory comes back to him. "Yeah. Damn." Then he's back, all crinkly-eyed boyish charm, smiling with just the tip of his tongue stuck between his teeth. "Any chance you feel like buying me a drink anyway?"

"No." A thought comes to Castiel, and he tilts in his stool to better face Dean head-on. "What's wrong with your own money? You got your wages yesterday."

Dean shrugs. "Sent 'em back to my brother. I usually keep some for me, but he needs some new textbooks, so..."

Castiel sighs. "Christ."

Swivelling in his stool to look Castiel dead in the eye, Dean grins. "C'mon, lieutenant. You're Catholic, right?" he says persuasively, and if he notices the way Castiel tenses at the mention of his religion, he doesn't take any heed to respecting it. He continues, "Dontcha think God'd want you to be a good Samaritan? Help a fella out?"

Castiel fixes Dean with his most disparaging stare. "I think God would want you to be independent and quit scrounging off others," he says flatly.

"_I _think God would consider us all equals," Dean goes on, louder now and drowning out Castiel's attempts at protest. He settles his elbows on the edge of the table, arms folded over, and rocks forwards into Castiel's personal space. "Including poor people." His smile is two-parts challenging, one-part just plain dumb, and altogether an unsettling combination of arrogance and comfortable familiarity that sends shivers under Castiel's skin.

Forcibly tearing his eyes away from the pink line where Dean's teeth nudge at his bottom lip, Castiel heaves a heavy sigh. "Jesus. If I buy you a drink, will you go away?" he asks wearily.

Dean's smile stretches wider, warmer. He cocks his head to one side and winks. "Temporarily. Maybe."

Castiel squints at him. "Fine," he bites out, not sure if he has just won or lost this round.

"Thank you, sir," Dean says happily – the glee in his tone suggesting that Castiel probably lost – and then suddenly the music creaking out of victrola changes its tune and he sits bolt upright. "Aw, I love this song!" he exclaims, and in an instant he's scrambling off his stool in the direction of the open floor where he can pick off some poor young thing to dance with – but not before he reaches out for Castiel. "Oh," Dean says as an afterthought – his hand catches on the side of Castiel's arm, glides loosely over his shoulder blades, fingers tracing featherlight trenches over his shirt; barely touching him, but the sensation is still enough to raise goosebumps on the skin underneath. "And I'll have a beer!"

Inias bursts out laughing so hard his drink slops around dangerously in his glass, and when Castiel shoots him a deadly glare, he only exclaims, "What? I like him."

Great. Castiel rolls his eyes. He is now totally outnumbered with regards to the people who see Dean as the epitome of hilarity and charm. He doesn't bother to answer that; he focuses instead on digging his pocket for his cigarette tin.

"C'mon, admit it – you like him too," Inias teases.

Castiel, still caught like an old record player on the bump and graze of Dean's fingers over his back, struggles to get enough purchase on a fingernail to pry the tin open. "Do not."

As Inias regards Castiel, something in his expression suddenly changes. The smile that lifts on his face is new and mischievous. He sets his glass of beer down. "Well, I'll be damned," he says, and he sits back in his chair as though struck by revelation. "You actually do. You _like _him."

"Huh?" Castiel is distracted by the sight, in the distance, of Dean's hand on the narrow waist of some young dark-haired girl, his fingers intertwined through hers as they hop and slide giddily across the floor. Castiel's fingernail finally finds the metal crease of his tin, and, already exerting more persuasive force than needed, the tin is flipped wildly open, the contents nearly scattering everywhere. He fumbles to snatch it back, and, once his cigarettes are safe, he shoots Inias a frown.

Inias tucks his tongue into the side of his mouth, shaking his head. "I don't believe this," he says. "You're stuck on the Winchester kid."

Castiel recoils, his face scrunching up like it's the most ridiculous thing he's ever heard. "What?" he exclaims. "No. No way." He traps a cigarette between his lips and huffs an incredulous laugh around it. "I'm not stuck on anyone, Inias, and even if I were, it sure as hell wouldn't be Dean freaking Winchester."

"You know, you could get into a lot of trouble for that."

Not really thinking about the words coming out of his mouth or the meaning of them, Castiel says on a resigned exhalation of smoke, "Yeah, I know."

"So you _are _stuck on him!" Inias concludes triumphantly, smirking. He rocks onto the back two legs of his stool. "I knew it." Castiel gives him a withering look and doesn't even dignify that with a response. Inias, however, is completely unfazed by Castiel's silence. "Not that I blame you," he continues. "He's pretty handsome."

"I'm not talking to you," Castiel tells him bluntly.

"He's got big hands, too." Inias sips at his beer and makes eyes at Castiel over the rim of it, eyebrows quirking up. "You know what that means, huh?"

"_Jesus_, Inias—"

"Okay, okay..." Inias only smiles into his beer like he thinks he's the funniest thing since the Marx Brothers, but he's pretty drunk; Castiel just rolls his eyes again and settles for concentrating on his cigarette, in the hopes that perhaps if he smokes hard and fast enough, the tobacco smog will cover the anxious flush rising low on his neck.

He tries to stay focused, he really does – but Inias has fallen into a hush, content to sway from side to side with the brassy lull of the music as he drinks, and Castiel is offered no other distraction except to let his eyes fall again on Dean. The easy swing and rock of his hips. His narrow waist twisting, the girl's hands on him surely able to feel the pull and flex of muscle as he moves. His shoulders shifting with his steps, the green cotton of his dress shirt stretched taut. His ass – god, but he has a nice ass – and long, long legs. The warm, hungry shape of a grin on his lips when he looks at her; mouth soft, eyes sharp, intent clear. The way he looks at her, hot and fierce, like he's enjoying what he sees and he wants to know it better, wants to take it apart piece by piece and see what's underneath—

It's not too different from the way he looks at Castiel.

Jesus Christ. The bar is suddenly far too hot, too crowded, too claustrophobic, and Castiel can feel heat searing up under his skin, burning a flustered claim on his throat and cheeks. He's got to get outside; it's stuffy and he's feeling dizzy like his own legs might not even support him, and Dean Winchester is not a homosexual, but Castiel's never been more of the thought that he might be able to change his mind about that.

"Inias, I," Castiel starts, his voice low and rough as he starts collecting up his lighter and cigarette tin from the table to stash back into his pockets, "I'm going to – go outside. Just – I need some fresh air. I'll be back."

"Wait, what?" Inias looks up at him, a bewildered frown pulling down between his eyebrows. "Whoa – Cas. What's up?" He reaches across the table, snatches at Castiel's sleeve before he can disappear, and holds him fast. "You're not gonna throw up, are you?"

Castiel shakes his head. "No – look, I'm fine. I just need to get out of here for a second." He gently pries Inias' hands from his arm, pats one hand when he sets it back down on the table. "Swear to god, I'm fine. I'll be right back."

Seeming appeased by this, Inias nods – and then barely waits until Castiel's back is turned before slyly finishing the remainder of his drink, so Castiel guesses he won't be too aggrieved by his absence. At worst, Inias can go find some girl to dance with.

Castiel pushes through the thick of people to get to the door and near-enough stumbles out onto the street when he finds it, much to the amusement of some middle-aged men clustered around the doorway. The chill night air on his skin is an instant relief; he just takes a second to breathe it in before reaching around to pull his folded garrison cap from his belt-loops and adjust it on his head, cigarette smouldering between his lips. He breathes and tries to think of other things. The hundreds of maps he's been studying for the assault. His physical training – sits-ups, press-ups, fast as he can punch them out – where are they going to do their five-mile run when they move out to Falmouth?

He sighs. He's going to miss this town. Baker Company have spent every weekend pass at their disposal on this place, emptying the pubs and sweetening the girls, and for a lot of men, in the last months, it's started to feel a little like home. The old buildings, tall and elegant in all their brickwork despite the chips and charcoal smears where German bombs landed too close; the straight-ruled tram-lines cutting through; the cluttered sky, all rain-clouds and industrial smog-darkness – it's comforting. He takes his cigarette from his mouth, exhales slowly. He wanders a little way down the sidewalk so that he's out of the way of the door, but not so far that he can't hear the music from inside, and leans back against the cool brickwork to smoke.

It could have been five minutes out there, or half an hour – Castiel isn't keeping track of the time – but his cigarette has long since burnt out to a blackened stub underneath his foot by the time he is eventually interrupted.

Dean swings out through the pub's front door, one hand on the wooden frame, just as drunk as he was when Castiel last saw him. He's grinning wide, his face lit up; his top button is undone. "Well," he says, drawing the word out long, slow and southern, "fancy seeing you out here, lieutenant."

Castiel arches his eyebrows at him. "Lieutenant Wallace told you, didn't he?"

"Yes, sir," Dean answers shamelessly, and he strides over to drop back against the brick wall beside Castiel. "He was worried. Did you throw up?"

"No!" Castiel sighs. "Jesus. No, I didn't throw up. I'm okay." He can feel his hands and ears coming up hot, and he hopes to hell that Dean won't pursue the topic any further, because the real answer is floating tantalisingly around in his head_. I had to come outside because I was starting to feel faint watching you dance_. He tries to push the thought away.

"So what, then?"

"None of your damn business, that's what," Castiel says, but he glances over at Dean on his left with no real resentment, lets him know he's not actually angry.

Dean looks back at him, disappointed, creased brow and a mockery of a pout; however, he doesn't push the question any further.

There's a creaking scratch as the record on the victrola comes to its trumpet-fanfare conclusion, and then a long moment of a silence before the next one comes on. It's Sinatra, and even from out here, Castiel can hear the squeals of girls from inside the bar. It's a slow one - _dreamy, _even – and Castiel is just about to comment derisively when he notices Dean shifting excitedly.

Castiel eyes him with more than a trace of suspicion. "What?"

"Nothing, I just—" Dean grins, shrugging. "I just love this song."

Eyebrows lifting incredulously, Castiel can only stare at him. "Are you kidding me?"

"What?" Dean says defensively. "You _don't _like this song?"

"No, because I'm not a freaking bobby-soxer," Castiel retorts, and he's arguing, putting Dean down, but he likes the way Dean rears back up, that grin half-jaded, finger-pointing.

Pushing himself off the wall by the shoulders, hips-first and the rest of his body following after, Dean wheels around to stand in front of Castiel. "Hey," he says, voice low like he's trying to pretend he's pissed off, but he's smiling too wide for that. "Don't be rude. Sinatra's good."

There's a flashfire-rush in Castiel's veins, and he's still more than a little drunk, so he ignores the dizzy flush under his skin and challenges, "Yeah, if you're queer, maybe." He's still leaning back against the wall, one foot tucked behind the other and both propped out in front of him, his hips a lazy diagonal to the sidewalk.

Dean lets out a laugh . "C'mon, seriously? This doesn't make you wanna dance even a little?"

"Absolutely not."

"Bull_shit_."

Castiel lifts his eyes heavenwards as if seeking help, his brow screwing up in disbelief, but it's with amusement that he comes back to ask, "Why are you so desperate to dance with me?"

"I don't want to dance with you—"

"Then stop asking me if I know how," Castiel says, raising his eyebrows pointedly.

Dean drags a hand over his mouth, still chuckling to himself. "That ain't why I'm asking you – Jesus." He shakes his head but he's smiling broad as ever.

Castiel tilts his head to the side, almost enjoying this. "Really? But then, what if I told you I _could_ dance?" he asks, and he pushes himself up off the wall – swaying unexpectedly close to Dean as his body catches up to his feet, less than a yard from Dean's. Castiel can hear his heartbeat thundering in his ears, his sight alcohol-blurred at the edges, but the thrill is in the way Dean's eyes crease with laughter at the corners, fall to flicker over Castiel's face like he's memorising every inch. Castiel tips his chin up defiantly. "What then?"

"I'd say prove it." Dean is arrogant, self-assured, teeth flashing in the lamplight. Castiel decides to knock him down a peg.

Without further ado, except maybe for the emboldened look he throws Dean, he spreads his arms wide for balance, waits for the lull in the music to anticipate the crescendo... and then he knocks out the best few steps he can remember from embarrassing high school dances – an easy, boring, one-two-three-one-two-three waltz, and then, just to fuck with him, a swinging Charleston step he remembers his mother doing with her friends in the kitchen when he was young – but that sort of thing was never his forte, and he trips.

Dean laughs out loud, head thrown backwards and whole body arching. Thankfully, though, he's not so busy making fun of Castiel that he can't reach out a hand to steady him, fingers curling capably around Castiel's upper arm.

For a few seconds, Dean is too busy laughing to say anything, but as Castiel straightens up and attempts to fight down the flush of embarrassment in his cheeks, he says, "Well, damn, sir, but you're pretty good."

Castiel throws his head back haughtily as if it was all intentional, and he meets Dean's gaze unabashed. "Sergeant, you flatter me," he says, and nothing can pin back the smallest curve of a smile on his lips.

Dean's mouth twists cheekily. "Well, someone has to."

Castiel guesses he walked right into that one. He shakes his head. "Winchester, have I ever told you that you're a pain in my ass?"

"Every day, sir." Dean's lopsided smirk breaks out into a full-grin. He rocks back on his heels, and it's only when he rocks back forwards that Castiel realises they are still standing close enough together to breathe the same air, Dean's hand still curved around Castiel's bicep. At this distance, Castiel can pick out the details; the small cluster of freckles to one side of his nose, especially dense so that they merge together; the crisp corner of his garrison cap, sitting arrogantly low on his brow; the colour of his eyes in the lamplight.

Castiel swallows, the sound a dull click, near deafening, in the absence of words between them, and - even though just the thought of it seems impossible, even though his every inch aches to be nearer still - he steps back from Dean. Loose fingers fall from Castiel's arm, but if they flex at Dean's side like they're faced with an unsettling emptiness now, then Castiel very determinedly does not notice.

"So," he starts, ignoring the nervous way his voice creaks a little at the edges, "it's coming up to nine about now, and we're going to have to head back soon. You still thirsty for that drink?"

"Oh, _hell _yes," Dean says, clapping his hands together enthusiastically, and wastes no time in following Castiel back into bar for one last drink.

As they weave back through the crowd to reach the bar, Dean reaches out and rests the tips of his fingers on the middle of Castiel's back, but it's to keep from losing him in the midst of all the people. Castiel doesn't feel his cheeks burn hot at the light and easy pressure of it. He doesn't feel a shiver trace its path up his spine from the place where they touch. He certainly doesn't glance back over his shoulder as he walks to meet Dean's eyes, reassure himself that he's still there, wordlessly echo the near-invisible dip and quirk of his smile.

He doesn't.

But if he does, it's only to make sure that the insistent press of Dean's hand is without any real intent – because that would be unprofessional.

**May 3****rd**** 1944**

Baker Company packs up its bags – weapons and all – and climbs aboard trains and trucks for the journey west for Falmouth. They're moving out.


	2. Falmouth

**FALMOUTH**

_6th May 1944_

_Dear Sam,_

_Still no news of when we're heading out to France, unfortunately, but we're billeted now in a bigger port town to accommodate the Force O ships, so my guess is it can't be too far off. By this stage, I just want to get the damn thing over with – I'm tired of waiting forever. Me and the other guys, Joe and Benny, we're so bored we actually started practicing our marching orders – and we've only been here three days. Everyone's going crazy, I tell you. Not to mention that lieutenant – I told you about Novak, right? I can tell he's sick and tired just looking at me, but I swear I'm not trying to piss him off. It just kind of happens. He's put me on latrine duty twice already, and like I said, it's only day three. I figure he's doing his job, though... piss-pans need cleaning, after all, and I'm just enough of an asshole to attract his attention, so that's the way it goes. Although it's hard to miss his attention. He's the most damns serious guy I've ever met, always notices everything. Adam tried to get some booze into town as well, courtesy of Slapton corner store, but it seems like being First Sergeant doesn't get you any fancy privileges as long as Novak's in the mood for following rules. I reckon I can get him to break them, though. Give me time._

_Anyway, it's good to hear you're doing okay. Don't worry about asshats giving you trouble, alright? It's only early, some kids might still be enlistment rejects trying to play it tough. They might settle down. Hell, they might even be good guys. Give everybody a chance – they deserve at least that. Don't go getting in any fights, you hear me? I'm not going to be able to haul your ass out of trouble. At least your prof's nice, although you were always going to be the teacher's pet. I don't know – maybe try not being so goddamn smart! And I'm sure she doesn't... Just don't talk too much about your history of language stuff to her. Yet._

_I should be able to write pretty regularly while I'm here, anyway. I'll talk you again soon, okay? Look after yourself. Bitch._

_T-4 Sergeant Winchester_

_91W1O, Company B, 116th Infantry Regiment_

_29th Infantry Division_

_United States Army_

**May 9th 1944**

It's a nice enough place, all things considered, but the time that Baker Company spends in Falmouth is easily the most boring month they've ever had to endure. At this stage, their training is over and now there is nothing to do but wait for their superiors to make a decision about when the operation will be launched; there is a lot of free time and very little to be done to occupy it.

Battalion S-1 Major Singer sets up theatres inside wall tents, offering free candy and popcorn to go with the movies rolling non-stop; a tent is set up as a library but stock moves fast and by the time Castiel gets there, most of the good books are already gone. He picks up whatever's left and reads it anyway, one book a week. Sports equipment is distributed and the men get competitive; Andy Gallagher insists with a grin that he walked into a door, but the black eye he's carrying looks distinctively fist-shaped.

Captain Milton rounds up the lieutenants one day to issue new equipment: new uniform, designed to withstand poisonous gas attacks, and clearly not designed for comfort either. The material is clammy, cold, and sticky, and every man makes a face when his new pressed-and-folded uniform is dropped into his arms, but they know better than to comment.

Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for when the lieutenants are called upon to distribute condoms.

"Well, sir, who'd have thought?" Sergeant Barnes bursts out cackling as he snatches his string of condoms out of the box that Castiel holds out. "Gotta be honest, I never thought you were that interested in my sex life—"

"They're for waterproofing," Castiel says wearily, what he knows will be the first time of many, but he is easily drowned out by word being passed on back down the line.

"What – what's going on—"

"Novak's got a sex-life?!"

"No, asshole, there's condoms at the—"

"They're givin' us _condoms_?!"

The uninterested orderliness of the queue breaks down as they push towards the front, laughing amongst themselves and eagerly peering past one other to see what's happening at the front.

"They're for _waterproofing_," Castiel repeats, raising his voice. "You can use them to keep your possessions dry during the assault – it'd also be a good idea to put them over the muzzle of your rifle to keep the water—"

"Oh, don't you worry, lieutenant, I'll be putting it on the end of my rifle alright," Private Fitzgerald says slyly as he grabs a handful.

"Like hell you will—"

"Shut the fuck up, Garth, your _rifle _ain't even loaded—"

"Your momma sure didn't complain!"

A juvenile chorus of _ooooohhhh _rings out, someone near the back of the line cheering encouragement for a full fight to break out, but thankfully Inias, at Castiel's side with another box, comes in with a distraction, commenting, "Well, will you look at that – with all that sexual tension, you'll be glad of those rubbers."

Fitzgerald scoffs, and Private Miller, whom he was insulting, flushes faintly and snaps, "Hey, I ain't a faggot, alright?", but at least they're not threatening to break out into a fist-fight anymore. Inias glances quickly over at Castiel, probably worried that he's offended, but Castiel plays oblivious. He hands out condoms to the rest of the line, reciting '_for waterproofing – no, it's for waterproofing' _like a mantra as he does so, before collecting some for himself.

"Yeah, make sure you get plenty of your own, sir!" Dean suddenly shouts as Castiel is stashing his condoms into the pockets of his combat jacket, making Castiel startle to the extent that he drops half of them.

He stoops to retrieve the fallen condoms, and scowls in Dean's direction as he straightens back up, but Dean is already sauntering away – _sauntering_ - and laughing about something with Corporal Harvelle, head tipped back, whole body curving. He recovers, shaking his head, and before he rounds the corner of one of the sausage-billets, Castiel sees him amusedly flipping through his collection of condoms like a pack of cards. His fingers are easy, deft, on the plastic.

Castiel flat-packs the now-empty cardboard box with more force than is probably required, punching hard, and finds his own words churning in his head. _They're for waterproofing._

They are given new weapons and spend extensive periods of time on the ranges, zeroing their sights, getting used to the changes, and, in Corporal Lowell's case, bitching at length about how many modifications he'd made to his old rifle only to have it taken away from him. They get fancy escape-aids in a little tin – a metal file to hang inside their jacket, a button for the new combat pants with a compass built in, a silk scarf patterned with a map of Normandy, and a shitload of francs to spend. Not many of those francs will ever make it to France in the pockets of the original owner, Castiel suspects; he sees the men playing cards and throwing the coins around every night for a week, metal clinking in their hands. They keep suspiciously good care of the condoms, though.

**May 12th 1944**

New and interesting company is found in the men of the other 29th infantry regiments, now all pooled together in one giant space. A couple of the regiments have already been touring in North Africa and don't respond kindly to the as-of-yet battle virgins of the 116th, flouncing around the billets and acting like they're hard shit. Castiel's getting tired of picking Staff Sergeant Milligan and Corporal Harvelle out of fights, and the bruises he's sporting after accidentally ending up in the middle of one still hurts.

For the most part, Castiel gets on well with the African veterans; he's interested in what they have to say, about their experiences and about combat in general.

"What advice have I got?" one of them laughs when Castiel asks, and looks him up and down appraisingly. "Kid, advice ain't gonna do jack shit for you."

"Don't get shot," another one chimes in unhelpfully, which they all seem to find hilarious.

"Nah, that's bullshit – you're gonna get shot. Hell, I don't know a guy in my company who ain't been shot." The first soldier tuts thoughtfully, mouth twisting. "Let's see... make decisions fast – dumb decisions are better'n no decisions, else all that time you're sitting around plotting a plan to shame Clausevitz, the other guys'll be getting their moves in – and make sure you trust your NCOs. They're the ones running the show."

"Yeah, you like to think so," says the second one with a snort of laughter. Both of them are non-commissioned officers themselves, but Castiel knows they're telling the truth and not just boasting of their own skills.

"Okay," Castiel says, nodding. He has an itch like he wants to write all this down, but the veterans are already teasing him enough as it is for his questions alone.

"Oh, and here's something – guys always freak out at first about mortars coming in, but you'll get used to working out where they're gonna land. In general, the rule is that if you can hear the shell, you're fine." The soldier levels a finger at Castiel, his eyebrow cocked like a warning. "You're fucked when you can't hear the shell. "

Castiel hesitates. "Alright." It's intimidating, but he's glad to have found these things out now.

He's got another question, but as he opens his mouth, he notices Captain Milton standing in the far corner of the mess hall. He and the Baker executive officer, First Lieutenant Shurley, are deep in conversation, but they are watching Castiel. It's unsettling. Castiel feels a shiver climb the knobs of his spine, one by one and slow like something terrible is going to happen.

At last Captain Milton looks away, speaking to Lieutenant Shurley more urgently now, his mouth moving almost imperceptibly, and then they're gone.

Castiel turns back to the veterans, apologising for getting distracted, but he has forgotten his question.

**May 17th 1944**

The mess hall is always crowded at exactly nineteen-hundred-hours, when the doors first open and all the men, enlisted and officer alike, who have been queued up a half-mile back from the building flood in to get their fill. Castiel usually avoids it as this time, but the platoon leaders of Baker Company have a briefing with Major Singer at twenty-hundred-hours and so he has little choice but to line up with everybody else. He has Inias with him, but he still isn't looking forwards to trying to cram himself into a very small space with every other goddamn soldier in the encampment.

Inias and Castiel shuffle through the doors at a painfully slow pace – it takes them at least three minutes just to get from one side of the threshold to the other so that they can remove their garrison caps – and by that time, the mess hall is stuffed full to throbbing. Noise hits them as a wall, but they push through with thoughts of a hot dinner giving them fresh strength,

Castiel gets served first and moves out towards the officers' mess to find a place for him and Inias to sit, but even as he treads the familiar path over to the low dividing wall between one section of the hall and another, he realises that every table is full. The hungry officers who were first to get in have filled every available seat and then some; they are crowded along the sides of each table, clustered around the corners, and there are even two guys from the 115th sharing a seat. The idea of finding somewhere to sit down is ambitious, to say the least.

Suddenly finding himself in that awkward situation of standing in the middle of the mess hall with nowhere to sit, Castiel begins scanning the tables of the enlisted men for someone from Baker Company. After a moment or two he spies a handful of men from his platoon, with a few spaces left on their table, and he heads in that direction.

As he approaches, Private Gallagher notices him, and looks up in surprise. "Everything alright, sir?" he asks, and with that, everyone else's attention is caught, and Castiel finds all eyes upon him, standing at the end of their table with his tray balanced precariously in his hands.

Castiel clears his throat, eyes flickering over the soldiers at the table – Andy Gallagher, Kevin Tran, Benny Lafitte, Joe Harvelle, Dean Winchester, Charlie Bradbury – it'll do. "Is it alright if I sit here?"

The men exchange glances, taken aback by this turn of events, but shrug. "Yeah, of course." They shuffle down the benches to let him sit down, and then further still when they notice Inias following a few paces behind Castiel.

Inias pauses at the head of the table, frowning slightly. "Officers' mess full again?" he asks Castiel, looking back over his shoulder at the other side of the room, where there is no sign of a seat ever being relinquished to new-comers.

"Yeah." Castiel shunts further down the bench to allow Inias to sit down beside him.

"Aw, don't worry, lieutenants, we'll be your friends," Corporal Harvelle says cheerily, waving a potato on the end of his fork.

"Yeah, you've always got us," Bradbury chimes in with a smile.

"Thank you." Inias, ever the gentleman, smiles and looks around the table. "How are you all doing?"

The men answer as a cacophony of voices, all _just fine, sir _and _got a hell of a blister on my toe but I'm doin' okay_, with which Inias seems satisfied, and leads off further into what they've been doing today, since there's not a hell of a lot to do in Falmouth and every day is a new exercise in creatively finding ways to occupy yourself. There's an inter-company soccer tournament coming up, which most of them having been practicing for, with the exception of Lance Corporal Lafitte, who is more a basketball kind of guy, and Gallagher, who holds up his hands in surrender and admits to having terrible coordination.

"Well, luckily for us, you're not going to be kicking balls at the Krauts," Bradbury says.

"I don't know," says Tran thoughtfully, "drop-kicking a grenade at them could be fun."

"You fucking kidding me? Do that and you'll blow off your goddamn leg," replies Harvelle incredulously, and he jerks his head in Dean's direction. "Even the fearless Doc here couldn't work his magic fingers on you, then."

Following the conversation even while not contributing a great deal, Castiel's eyes move from Harvelle to Dean, and is startled to see that Dean is not particularly engaged in the topic either; instead, he is staring straight at Castiel, eyebrows pulled together in the middle like he's thinking hard about something. Distantly, Castiel hears someone made a lewd joke about _magic fingers_, but he isn't sure what it was or who said it.

Unexpectedly then, Dean tilts his head back, as though trying to encourage his food to digest faster in his mouth before he speaks, and, without any warning or prompt, says, "Lieutenant Novak, what's your first name?"

The rest of the conversation on the table grinds to a halt as everyone tunes into what's happening between Dean and Castiel. Harvelle throws Castiel a grin and intervenes, teasing, "His first name's _sir._"

Castiel's mouth twists into a small smile. "Yeah," he says, nodding in Harvelle's direction. "He's got it right."

"Nah, come on, sir." Dean's lower lip juts out into an overly melodramatic pout. "Please?"

"No."

Amidst the cackles of laughter and cajoling of _nice try, asshat, _from the other men at the table, Dean sits back seemingly defeated. However, after only a moment or two of idly stirring his meat around his plate with the edge of his knife, he looks back up. "It's Cassteel, isn't it?"

Castiel's eyes flick up to meet Dean's, apprehensive. He weighs up the expression in Dean's eyes, which seems genuine enough – just plain curious – and considers whether he should tell him off for inappropriate conduct or not. In the end, he settles for saying, "What, are you a stalker or something?"

Dean grins. "Or something."

Castiel lifts his eyebrows but doesn't answer. Before he can even think to speak, Lafitte intervenes with a laugh. "Aw, sir, don't tear him a new one yet," he says. "We kinda like him. 'Sides, we've all seen your badges here. On registers and that."

"Except it's Cast_-iel_," Inias tells them, leaning forwards to peek past Castiel at the rest of the men down at the other end of the table.

With a resigned noise of surrender, Castiel shrugs, but he does elbow Inias in the stomach. "I honestly don't know how I maintain any semblance of authority with you around," he says.

Inias smiles sheepishly, but he bumps Castiel with his shoulder – nearly scattering Castiel's forkful of food all over the table in the process. "Hey, don't be sour, babe," he says. "You love me really."

"You're terrible," Castiel retorts. He holds his fork carefully out of reach of Inias' antics, looking over disapprovingly at him.

Funnily enough, Inias doesn't argue with this; he just stifles a laugh into the back of his hand.

It seems Dean isn't done with the personal interrogations, as the next thing Castiel knows, he's setting down his fork and tilting his head past Private Gallagher to meet Castiel's eyes. "So how come he gets to call you _babe _and I don't get to call you _sweetheart,_ anyway?" he complains, and if he notices that the rest of the table lapses off into giggles and wolf-whistles, he doesn't show it. He's looking intently across at Castiel, ignoring everything else; there's that dumb lopsided start of a smile, arrogant on his lips, but he looks serious. Castiel wonders why it matters to him.

"He doesn't," Castiel starts. He glances over at Inias, who looks quietly pleased with himself – of course – and then back to Dean. "But on the grounds that he moved into the house across the road from mine in the first grade, sat in front of me in every class from that point on so that he could help me on every chemistry test they could throw at us, held my head out of the toilet while I puked at our highschool, and has kind of been metaphorically holding my head out of toilets ever since... I figure he's allowed to get away with it."

No-one reacts to this story; they're all Bedford-born-and-bred and have heard it a thousand times. Bradbury asks someone to pass him the jug of the water.

Inias, at Castiel's side, shakes his head, smiling. "Swear to god, Novak," he teases, "every time you tell that story you sound a little more sweet on me."

"You're such an asshole."

Inias laughs.

"So I guess you go pretty far back," Dean says at last.

Inias shrugs his shoulders. "To be honest, most of the guys here go pretty far back. We've got, what is it, thirty guys in Baker coming from Bedford? Forty?" He looks across at Castiel, frowning as he tries to remember the exact statistic.

"I think it was thirty-seven last time I heard," Gallagher offers. "Except Rowan transferred to the 47th, didn't he – so I guess that's thirty-six."

Castiel nods. "Yeah, thirty-six."

Dean's mouth has fallen slightly open. He looks incredulously between the three of them. "You serious?"

"Absolutely." Inias stuffs a forkful of beef into his mouth, and then presses a fingertip to the bow of his lips as he waits to chew and swallow before continuing. "Uh – yeah, I know of six guys who went to our high school, even – although I think we'd graduated by the time they got there."

"No, Zeddmore was a freshman in our last year," Castiel corrects absently, reaching for his glass of water.

"That is so weird." Dean sits back heavily on the bench, staring around at them all. "Geez. You're all practically inbred."

Castiel gives him a stern look. He can just about tolerate Dean being nosey – almost all new recruits are – but there's no need to be just plain rude. He can already feel irritation starting to itch under his skin; he doesn't bother trying to sugar-coat it, either. "Well, I'm pretty sure you just found the single fastest way to insult most of the men in the company, but yeah, you could say that."

Dean lets out a short, disbelieving huff of a laugh. "What, you don't think it's weird?"

Private Tran grimaces and leans forwards to whisper conspiratorially, "A little, yeah."

"What's weird about it?" Castiel asks. "It's a sizable town. We never knew each other before we signed up, except a few – me and Lieutenant Wallace, for example – but for the most part we never crossed paths until we signed up or got enlisted."

"Yeah, but... the same damn town." Dean shakes his head. "I mean, come on. You probably all went to the same stores, hung out at all the same places, and never even knew. Hell, you probably all slept with the same hookers!" He points a finger and levels it around at all of them, one person at a time. "You know, if she had anything, you're all fucked."

Castiel shoots his most disparaging look in Dean's direction. "I've never slept with a hooker."

Dean's mouth falls into a cocky grin, the tip of his tongue just visible between his teeth. He folds his arms across his chest. "Yeah, well, of course you haven't," he says smugly. "You've probably never slept with anybody, huh?"

There is the clear thud of someone kicking Dean under the table. Whoever it was, Castiel appreciates their effort in trying to get Dean to grow the fuck up and stop being such an arrogant asshole, but clearly some people are lost causes entirely, as Dean just twists out of their reach and chuckles, "_What_? I'm just messing around", completely unashamed of his actions.

Regardless of whether or not Dean is _just messing around,_ Castiel can already feel blood beating loud in his skull like a warning with every passing second. He doesn't break eye contact with him, his expression hard. "That's none of your business, Sergeant."

With a snort of laughter, Dean only says, "I'll take that as confirmation, then."

Castiel's hands tighten on his cutlery. He looks down at his plate – he's not hungry anymore.

He finds himself thinking, strangely enough, of that last night of their stay in Slapton, when they'd all headed up to Plymouth to drink and generally make merry – when he and Dean had managed to converse perfectly civilly for most of the evening, easy as anything. He'd made the mistake of therefore thinking that the brusque, disrespectful asshole he'd first encountered had disappeared. Clearly, however, he was wrong.

"Winchester," Inias says sharply – a tone of voice Castiel hasn't heard on him in years. "I suggest you shut up."

Dean tilts forwards to get closer, still grinning like he thinks he's the funniest person alive, and looks across to Inias. "Why, is he saving himself for you?"

Corporal Harvelle shoves at him. "Man, just shut the fuck up."

Castiel sets down his cutlery, very slowly, metal clinking against the tray. "Winchester," he says quietly, his eyes lifting to meet Dean's once more. "Do you remember when I told you were in my platoon walking a very thin line?" He stares Dean down, jaw pulled taut, and almost dares Dean to make some smartass comment. "Well, right about now you're just about holding onto it by your goddamn teeth."

And then Dean arches his eyebrows, grin wide, lips slightly parted. "Is that what you told the hooker you didn't sleep with?"

For the longest time, the table sits in total silence, perversely at odds with the bustle of the rest of the mess hall around them. Castiel doesn't flinch. He doesn't even blink.

Then: "Get out."

Dean looks straight back at him, uncomprehending. After a moment or two, his eyebrows pull together in the middle. He sits in absolute silence for a moment, just scrutinising Castiel as though to try to and gauge whether he's serious. "What?"

Castiel has not moved an inch. He just looks at Dean, perfectly calm. "Get out."

For one heart-stopping second, it looks like Dean is going to argue – and Castiel doesn't know what he would have done then, except report him to Captain Milton, but that always looks bad – but then Dean lets out a short huff of air, defeated. He looks down at his dinner, still unfinished, but makes no comment. Then he looks back up, meeting Castiel's eyes once more, and says, "Yes, sir." And without further ado, he stands up, picks up his tray, and leaves.

No-one speaks. This is why officers and enlisted men don't eat together – too much leeway for inappropriate conduct, although Dean's behaviour just blew straight through _inappropriate _and out the other side. Now everything is somewhat unsettled. Gallagher becomes intensely interested in his meal, scooping up enormous, quivering fork-loads at a time; Bradbury points out a smear of gravy to the side of Corporal Harvelle's mouth, which Harvelle responds to with a facetiously-seductive attempt to lick it off; Private Tran lets out a long exhalation and awkwardly says, "So, these potatoes, huh?"

Castiel lets out a long breath, and, feeling bad for the enlisted men whose dinner he's now ruined, apologises. They all immediately open their mouths to tell him it's not his fault, that Winchester just never knows when to quit, and the hush that they lapse back into after their declarations have been made is thick still, but less uncomfortable. They continue eating in contented silence until it is broken once more, this time by Corporal Harvelle giving a low whistle.

"Shit," he says, twisting in his seat to jerk his head in the direction of the dinner queue. "Will you look at that?"

Everyone lifts their heads to follow his gaze and immediately spot what he's commenting on. Part of one of the coloured infantry regiments has filed in to get their food and they are lined neatly against the far wall to wait, making conversation amongst themselves and pointedly ignoring the fact that the mess hall has grown quiet and that most of the white soldiers are staring at them.

"Christ."

"Are they even allowed in here?"

Gallagher is the first to look away, grimacing. "Damn – soon they'll be letting in fags and everything."

Castiel's eyes flicker slowly over the men in the distance before returning to his dinner.

"Fuck that – they can fight their own goddamn war."

His meat has gone cold by this stage, and he's lost his appetite anyway after that argument with Dean. There is still a low beat of anger under his skin and ringing in the back of his skull. He doesn't even try to contribute to this new conversation.

"I'll be damned, but you all kind of sound like this guy I've been hearing of," Inias suddenly says, his voice soft, but the other fall quiet to hear him. He looks up at the ceiling with a pensiveness so intense it can only be feigned, tapping the tines of his fork against his plate. "Ah, what was he called – you know, about yea high—" he gestures with his fork, levels a line from the side of his head "—bad moustache, troops all lined up to meet us on the other side of that Channel?"

The men catch on to what Inias is saying all at once, starting to groan and complain in unison – _but sir – no, we just – come on, you know we – do you really - only kidding – think they should be allowed?_

Inias nods along with them for a second before raising a hand to shush them. "See, I don't know about you, but I was always under the impression we were fighting for freedom."

"I thought we were fighting 'cause Mr. Hitler invaded Poland," Benny Lafitte cuts in sarcastically.

Private Bradbury rolls his eyes. "Then why isn't that Poland's problem?"

"Well, they need the greatest country in the world to babysit them, of course."

"Then again, who can blame 'em?"

"_I _blame them," Tran says sourly. "I could be at home right now."

There is laughter and a general mockery of Tran's resentment of having being drafted, and Castiel is only half-listening as he stirs the last of his food around and around his plate, drawing shapes and patterns in the leftover sauce. Then there is an elbow abruptly disrupting him, and he jumps. "What?"

"I said, what do you think, sir?" Harvelle asks him.

Castiel blinks, trying to focus on the conversation in front of him. "About what?"

Harvelle stares at him for a second before glancing back to the others with a frown. "Uh," he says uncertainly. "I don't know - about all of it?"

"Yeah, sure." Castiel nods distractedly, looking away towards the clock on the far wall of the mess. It's nineteen-thirty-five. He has twenty-five minutes to be in Major Singer's office, and he has to get back to his billet first to collect the necessary material for it as well. "I'm sorry, will you excuse me?"

Looking somewhat confused, the others agree, and so, with one last glance around at them all to thank them for letting him sit there, he collects up his tray and leaves. Dean Winchester is standing outside of the mess hall doors, an unlit cigarette clenched in his teeth. Castiel doesn't even look at him.

**May 21st 1944**

The promise of all the newest US movie releases being sent straight over to the makeshift movie theatres set up in Falmouth sours quickly when the men realise that there actually aren't that many movies being made at the moment. What little new movies are made are on almost constant repeat until most of Baker Company can recite _Going My Way_ and _Gaslight_ word-for-word. Sometimes older ones come on though, classic dance movies between the propaganda reels.

Castiel doesn't care for dance but _Swing Time_ is showing and it's something to do. There's nothing left in the billets' library that he hasn't yet read, and in the theatre there's bound to be someone else bored out of their skulls who he can talk to, even if he doesn't actually enjoy the movie. In itself, it's not too bad. There are ear-piercing wolf whistles every time Ginger Rogers drifts onto the screen, and Castiel pretends to be interested. He forces a laugh when someone yells out something crude from the front row, nods approvingly when Ginger twirls in a long glitzy dress, her slim legs silhouetted through the material; he plays the part.

Fred Astaire is goofing about in someone's living room – Castiel doesn't know whose, but then again, he's not really paying attention – and Castiel glances over the men sitting nearby him, trying to work out if any of them are as mind-numbingly bored as he is. On his right side is Inias, who loves dancing movies and will hush him fiercely if he tries to interrupt; on his left side are some of the privates from Lieutenant's Hester's platoon. There's a handful of men that he doesn't recognise sitting directly in front of him, and then, just to the far left of their group, is Corporal Harvelle, and then, beyond him, there is Sergeant Winchester.

Castiel's eyes snap back to the front immediately.

Onscreen, Ginger Rogers is bending over the bathroom sink, rubbing soap suds into her hair and piling it all up atop her head. "_Lucky?_" Her voice is high and shrill. "_Lucky!_"

Fred Astaire sits down at the piano.

Castiel is still annoyed at Dean. Just the memory of their disagreement in the mess hall starts irritation flaring up inside Castiel anew, and his jaw tightens subconsciously. Honestly, he's getting sick and tired of Dean's behaviour, and he is completely of the belief that his life would be one hundred times better and one thousand times easier if Dean were no longer in it.

He doesn't want anything to do with him.

Castiel lasts about three more seconds before he lets his gaze drift back to forbidden territory.

Dean's engrossed in the movie, lips subconsciously half-parted as he watches. The flickering white of the movie screen lights up his face with a pale glow – the soft curl of his eyelashes, the striking line of his nose – and casts shadows everywhere else – the hollows of his cheeks, the hinge of his jaw – and then Dean swallows. Castiel is going to look away, he's going to return to the film, but his eyes are falling unwillingly to the smooth line of his throat, the sleek pull of muscles under the skin with the bob of his Adam's apple. His jacket is off, draped carelessly over the back of his seat; his shirt collar is perfectly creased against his neck, the rest of the material starched and ironed to the highest standard so that it stretches taut over his shoulders and back like a second skin, and it's not too hard to imagine him without it.

Shit. Castiel looks away.

Fred Astaire is getting into the swing of the song now, and Castiel tries to pay attention. His mouth has suddenly come up dry. He narrows his eyes at the screen, forcing himself to focus on the music rather than anything irresponsible like the steady thrum of heat under his skin or the way Dean Winchester would look out of that dress uniform.

A much-needed distraction comes with the realisation that one of the privates to Castiel's left is singing along under his breath, albeit tunelessly, and Castiel lets the off-key accompaniment serve as a reminder that the music is still playing, the movie's still rolling, and he's not to look the other way, no matter how tempted he may be. He stares straight ahead and digs his fingers into his knees until his knuckles turn white. It's definite, then: Dean Winchester is the worst thing ever to have happened to him.

**May 29th 1944**

On a Monday, Baker Company go down to the ranges two platoons at a time to practice their marksmanship, for lack of anything better to do. Castiel rounds up one-platoon to collect their weapons from the armoury and stands idly by the entrance making conversation with Lieutenant Hester as their men file back out.

"—but you know, I don't actually think it'll be too bad," Hester is saying of the Normandy beach attack, confident, but there is an uncertain twitch to his fingers on the cheek piece of his rifle. "I mean, we've practiced it a hundred times and it's always turned out okay – with the exception of that Tiger exercise, of course, but that was just poor execution—"

"I hate to say this, but the quality of the execution won't necessarily be up to you," Castiel says grimly, eyeing the troops going past as he speaks. "Not to mention – Corbett! It's a _sight_, not a _handle_ – that all of our practice runs have been in England."

Sergeant Milligan pauses in front of the two lieutenants. "Last man, sir."

Castiel nods. "Thank you."

Milligan heads off to form up the rest of the platoons. Hester turns to Castiel and claps him firmly on the shoulder, his hand a clammy and patronising weight, and exclaims, "Don't worry, Novak. You just sit tight and let me and the Cap sort it out," before sliding away. His voice is high, his laughter shrill. Castiel frowns.

They head out for the ranges in column, officers off to the side where they can give marching orders and ensure that everyone's behaving themselves. By this stage, with the date of Operation Neptune as of yet unannounced by imminent, they should all be pitch-perfect. Some talk quietly amongst themselves within the ranks, but are quickly told to shut up and face the front. Weapons crossed over their chests, they're all in step, easy as breathing.

Separating into their squads and then again into teams of similar weapons, they wait their turn or take up their place at the firing-point, prone on the gravel and waiting for further instruction. Castiel's rifle team is up first; he lies at the far end of the point, M1 tucked into the hollow of his shoulder.

Hester's voice makes him jump, seeming to come from right behind his ear. "With a clip of eight rounds, _load – _make ready – and, in your own time, to the targets in front, fire."

Castiel's drills are fluid, practiced – safety, bolt back, clip in,_ click_, and lift - and he squeezes off his shots easy, braced for the recoil to slam the rifle butt back into his shoulder. He empties his clip, clicks the safety back on, and waits. The others are still shooting.

Then, as Hester calls out to check firstly that everyone has spent all their ammunition, and then to command that they all make safe, to Castiel's right, Private Blake's finger slips past the trigger guard, and with the safety catch unapplied, lets off one more echoing shot into the silence.

Castiel glances over, alarmed, and catches Blake's eye as he looks up in absolute horror to see how much trouble he's in, and for a long second, he and Blake simply stare at each other in an unspoken agreement of _you're a fucking idiot._

However, Castiel was not expecting the sheer intensity of Hester's explosion - he's strung far too tight with the pressure of keeping up good impressions as second-in-command, not letting anyone down, proving he's good enough, and he just snaps.

"Who was that?" he's yelling – not even a drill-sergeant parade-square-order yell, but flat-out screaming so that his voice cracks. "Who the _fuck _was that?"

Castiel stares straight ahead, not giving away any hint that he knows who it is; out of the corner of his eye, he can see Blake cringing and buoying himself up to admit the fault – but he doesn't even get a chance, because Hester just keeps going.

"Which one of you is so _fucking _stupid you can't even follow a goddamn order – _make fucking safe_, you know what that means, it means you make your goddamn weapon _safe_, you don't keep fucking firing!" Hester screams, and he's moving up and down the line of soldiers like a man possessed. "You're supposed to be trained soldiers, you're supposed to be ready for battle, but damn if you faggots are ready for anything more complicated than wiping your own goddamn assholes—"

Castiel presses his lips into a tight line.

_Don't get involved,_ he tells himself. _Whatever you do, you cannot undermine another officer's authority. Don't – get - involved._

At Castiel's side, Blake tenses, and there is the movement of his leg shifting beneath him like he's getting ready to sit up and confess.

"—what if you'd done that next week? Or in a month's time? What if some poor bastard is out in front of you – a medic, maybe, trying to patch up one of your friends, or an officer leading the way – and you try and make fucking safe and you shoot him? What if, god help you, you're involved in an ambush and you shoot off the element of surprise and blow the whole fucking mission with one moment of fucking idiocy." Hester's face is turning red. "I swear to fucking god, I should tear you a new asshole and send it back to your parents, write a note saying, _I'm sorry, your cock-sucking waste of a son couldn't even handle a fucking make safe, let alone a goddamn walking, talking Nazi—"_

Castiel shouldn't get involved.

"—now, right now, which one of you godamn, fucking _faggots—_"

Blake draws in a deep, shaky breath for courage.

Castiel raises his hand.

"Lieutenant Hester?" he calls, and in his peripheral vision, he sees Blake freeze.

There's a pause. "What?"

"I miscounted the rounds as I let them off – I thought I'd finished my clip, but clearly I was wrong." Castiel stares in the distance at his target, trying to appear as un-confrontational as possible. He keeps his rifle butt pushed into his shoulder, other hand raised levelly.

As he's not looking at him, Castiel can't see Hester's reaction, but there is another long pause. Blake has stopped breathing altogether. Castiel can hear his heartbeat drumming inside his skull, waiting for Hester to speak.

"Lieutenant Novak, stand up."

He does, leaving his rifle laid carefully on the gravel, and turns to Hester, bracing himself to attention. He stares blankly ahead, expressionless, as Hester treads slowly closer. His face is still red; he's breathing far too fast. Castiel is marginally worried for his health – but only marginally, as for the most part he's just plain irritated. It's one thing to crack under pressure; it's another thing to do it so unprofessionally, and to be such an asshole about it.

However, before Hester can even open his mouth, they are interrupted.

"Lieutenants, what's going on?"

Captain Milton stands a few feet from off from Hester, looking displeased.

Hester swivels to brace and salute him, while Castiel waits motionless where he is, waiting almost boredly for Hester to unleash the wrath of heaven upon him. He does try to overhear what Milton and Hester are discussing in low voices, although without great success. There is a hardness to Milton's voice, a shakiness to Hester's; they talk for a moment or two, while the rest of one- and two-platoon remain frozen.

Then, at last, Milton calls out, "Is there any rifleman who has not yet made safe?" No-one answers, and taking this as a negative response, Milton continues to instruct them to unload, stand up, and dress back from the firing point to be replaced by the next fire-team.

That's it.

Milton addresses Castiel briefly to warn him that he needs to be much more careful with his drills, and then heads back off to resume whatever he was discussing with the staff inside the hut at the back of the range. Hester begins instructing the next fire-team, albeit sulkily, and Castiel retrieves his rifle from his firing point before heading off to wait for his next turn. Nothing else happens. It's all rather unsettlingly anti-climatic, but Castiel supposes it's better than getting torn to shreds by his superiors.

As Blake hurries past Castiel, they make brief eye-contact, but Blake doesn't say anything – probably for fear of pushing his luck and still being exposed. Castiel stops him anyway, speaking to him in an undertone so as not to draw any more suspicion to the whole event.

"I didn't do that for you, Private," Castiel tells him. "If you make another mistake, I expect you to report it immediately. And I don't expect you to make another mistake."

"No, sir," Blake says hastily. "It won't happen again, I promise."

"The fundamentals of what Hester said are true," Castiel says. "You do that in Normandy, you put a lot of people in danger. We don't have time for you to be making these kind of rookie errors - I want to see a lot better from you."

"Yes, sir."

"You're dismissed."

Blake pulls off a salute and, cheeks burning red with embarrassment, says no more about it before returning to the rest of his group. Watching him go, Castiel adjusts the strap of his rifle sling and doesn't think too hard about what's just happened; he doesn't need that kind of paranoia on top of everything else.

He goes to find two-platoon's secondary lieutenant, one Inias Wallace, and drops down to sit cross-legged beside him, rifle resting idly between his knees. Inias comments on how mortified Hester had looked when he'd been called out by Captain Milton, but otherwise wastes no time in steering the conversation to safer waters, away from the insults still hanging thick in the air like tear gas.

They talk about the weather, the shooting techniques of those currently on the firing point, their plans for the weekend, when they think they'll move out for France, but Castiel is hard to distract. Captain Milton is watching him.

**May 30th 1944**

"Lieutenant Novak?"

Castiel slows, and then stops. Stepping quickly to the side of the path so as not to block anyone else's path, he turns back. A few feet down the path behind him is Captain Milton; Castiel waits under he comes closer before bracing up and saluting. "Sir."

Milton comes to attention and snaps a salute back before nodding at Castiel by way of a more informal greeting. "Where were you headed?"

Exhaling heavily, Castiel shifts his feet apart to stand more comfortably. "Not really anywhere. I was going to see if there were any new books in the library, but it's not important," he says with a non-committal shrug. "Am I needed?"

"Actually, I was wondering if I could talk to you about something," Milton says.

Ridiculously, the first thing that flashes into Castiel's mind is Dean Winchester, the words _I've been found out _stamped all over the image in great bleeding, accusatory letters, before he remembers that he hasn't done anything and he's never going to do anything and if he sometimes looks at another man when he's not supposed to, that's not a crime – except it is, and his heartbeat won't slow down in his chest no matter what he tells himself. "Of course, sir," he says around a tongue that seems to have swollen ten times in size. "What do you need?"

Milton's hands settle behind his back in an almost-exaggerated gesture of nonchalance; the sight of it makes Castiel nervous. Milton clears his throat. "Novak, what would you say to being appointed 2IC of Baker Company's assault on Dog Green?"

Castiel doesn't quite know what he really expected, but it wasn't that. He blinks. "Sir," he starts, "I'd be honoured, sir, of course – forgive me, but I thought that role had been designated to Lieutenant Hester."

"It had, but," Milton pauses here, as though considering his words carefully, "it's being reassigned." He meets Castiel's eyes, expression serious. "I've discussed it with regimental staff and the conclusion we came to was that you'd be able to cope better under pressure."

Castiel thinks back to Hester's meltdown yesterday and can't help but silently agree.

"You're a good leader, a good tactician," Milton continues. "You're more than competent, and I think you're the best candidate. Do you think you can handle it?"

Extremely conscious of Milton eyeing him, judging his every reaction, Castiel makes an effort not to appear too anxious in considering the proposition. Second-in-command. Theoretically, an easy enough position - but if anything were to happen to Captain Milton... He swallows. "Well, I've never led an amphibious assault on occupied coastline before, so I can hardly speak from experience, but I believe I can handle it."

Milton's lips press into a thin line. "I'm going to need a little more than _belief, _Novak."

Castiel stands up straighter. "I can handle it, sir."

"Good." Milton nods. He turns his head off to the side, takes a moment to watch some young Lance Corporals arguing over a game of crabs by the side of the path. He looks back. "There'll be a briefing tonight, twenty-hundred-hours in the S-1's office. We'll be going over some new intel – the RAF got a few good pictures yesterday when the sky was clear. You can take a better look at the maps, then."

"Yes, sir. Anything else, sir?"

"No, that'll be all."

They stiffen for salute, Castiel first, then Captain Milton, and fall back into their regular lives as previously scheduled. Castiel turns on his heel and heads on towards the library, just because he feels that he needs to retain some feeling that everything is just the same as it was five minutes ago, but that feeling is steadily slipping away.

**2nd June 1944**

Castiel has never been a particularly big fan of meat broth, and so when the Battalion are invited out of their lodgings for dinner in the HQ mess hall, he isn't particularly enthused. He has a meeting with Captain Milton to attend first, regarding the organisation of the troops tomorrow morning for the move out west, and he isn't too bothered that he's going to turn up late. However, the instant that he enters the mess hall to see spaghetti, hot-dogs and ice-cream, he wonders for a second if the base has been hit by a bomb and sent him off to heaven early.

He stands stupefied in a doorway, just breathing in the hot, greasy smell of it all for a while, until he's jostled aside by some over-eager privates from HQ Company – "'scuse, sir," – "sorry, Lieutenant" – "are those _hot-dogs_?!" – at which point he realises that, yes, the food is real, and that he's starving.

Moving quickly to find his way back into the queue, Castiel gets busy piling his plate high with spaghetti, and then slowly navigates the chaos and noise of the mess-hall, each one crammed full of hungry soldiers eating as much of the treats as they can fit in their bellies.

Officers get first priority to eat, and so by this time of evening they've already eaten and cleared out to smoke or plan the day ahead of them – although there's not much need for planning, as the general order of the day tomorrow will be clearing out of Falmouth, onto great battleships that will set sail from England and take them across to occupied France. Either way, at this point, the officers' mess is blissfully empty; Castiel has the pick of any table in which to sit and eat his spaghetti in peace.

He is only two forkfuls through his meal when a dinner tray clatters down opposite him.

"You ever heard of the Last Supper?" Dean Winchester asks conversationally, digging his spoon deep into the world's biggest helping of strawberry ice-cream.

Castiel doesn't look up. "Familiar with it." He twirls spaghetti idly around his fork, once, twice, three times. He picks it up, losing half of it on the way to his mouth, and takes a bite. "Why?"

"No reason."

Castiel's eyes lift sceptically to meet Dean's.

Dean cocks his eyebrows pointedly. "It's good ice-cream, that's all," he says, and then, as if to prove a point, shoves an enormous spoonful into his mouth. "Lambs, slaughter. You know."

Exhaling sharply, Castiel sets down his cutlery. "You're not an officer," he states.

"No, sir," Dean replies cheerfully.

"This is the officers' mess," says Castiel. "What are you doing here?"

Dean shrugs, clearly unfazed by Castiel's disapproval. "I figured you could use some company."

"You were wrong."

Spoon clinking against his bowl, Dean comments offhandedly, "No offense, sir, but has anyone ever told you you're kind of an asshole?"

Right. _Right. _Irritation sears hotly under Castiel's skin, and really, _that_ is all he can stand. "Actually, no, they haven't," he snaps, glaring, "because I'm _not _an asshole. _You_, on the other hand, are loud, rude, disruptive, arrogant, and have absolutely no respect for my authority, my company, or anything we try to achieve." Castiel picks up his fork and points it, prongs-first, in Dean's face. "I'm not an asshole, Winchester. I just have very little tolerance for people who waste my time." And with that, he takes another clumsy forkful of pasta and eats it.

For a few moments, there is a long, tense silence. Castiel eats his dinner with more indignation than is probably called for; Dean, as far as Castiel can tell, makes no move to eat anything.

Then, eventually, Dean says, "You think I don't respect you?"

Castiel lifts his head, taken by surprise – half by Dean's words, half by the newfound tone of sincerity in them. Castiel finishes chewing, slowly. "Don't you?" he asks brusquely.

Dean just looks at him, his expression cool and steady. At first, Castiel thinks that he's not going to answer; the apprehension in his eyes is so calm and understanding that Castiel can only assume it's disdainful. Then he speaks.

"Lieutenant," he starts, quiet but firm, "you're what – twenty-four? Twenty-five? And the way I see it, you command a platoon of thirty men, if not a whole damn company, better than most guys can command their own bowels – and those men follow you out of nothing _but_ respect. Not 'cause they're scared of you, not 'cause they have to... but simply because they'd rather riddle themselves full of bullets than let you down. And because, I guess, they also trust you not to let 'em get riddled full of bullets in the first place. I don't think I'd be wrong in saying that most of those men would throw themselves off a cliff if you said _jump._" Dean presses his lips tight together and leans forwards, across the table, to catch back Castiel's eyes when they fall downwards. "Sir, you're one of the best officers I ever met in this place or any other, and if I didn't respect you, I'd be dumber than all those Krauts put together."

Castiel is silent. He looks at Dean, weighing him up, trying to gauge if he really means all that.

Dean then gives a short chuckle, and he picks up his spoon again. "But then, if I told you all that, you'd go getting a big head," he says, raising his eyebrows, and he scrapes around the bottom of his bowl for the leftover slush of his ice-cream. He lifts the spoon halfway to his lips and then pauses, smirking a little, and deliberately adds, _"Sweetheart_."

Castiel's mouth twists, not sure what to say to all that. In the end, he opts for telling him, "I'm twenty-eight, actually."

"Happy belated birthday, sir."

Unexpectedly, a brief huff of laughter breaks from Castiel's mouth. He looks down at his pasta again, twisting the remnants of it around and around his fork. "You've got a weird way of showing respect for someone, I'll tell you that much," Castiel says, trying to keep his tone cold, but it's difficult to maintain after Dean's bizarre and unexpected declaration.

Dean exhales slowly. "Well..." Considering what Castiel has said carefully, Dean bites his spoon, the concave of it flattening his lower lip, bringing up a pink in it which Castiel very pointedly does not look at it. Dean hesitates another second before speaking. "If you don't mind me saying, it seems to me you've got a hell of a lot of weight on your shoulders right about now." Another mouthful of ice-cream. "Figured you could use a pick me up."

Castiel stares at him, feeling like the ground has just been taken out from under his feet. He doesn't even try to process the real meaning of what Dean has just said. He just says, "Winchester, you weren't _picking me up_ – you were making me look stupid."

Dean grimaces, and for the first thing, there's something like remorse in his expression. "That wasn't the intention. Hell, half of the time I was only trying to make you laugh." He raises his eyebrows at Castiel. "You might've found it funnier if you'd lighten up a little."

"I might've found it funnier if any of it was actually funny."

Sighing, Dean holds up his hands in surrender. "Okay. My fault. Fine." He grins then, bright and cheerful. "Are we done throwing hissy fits about your _authority _now?"

Castiel sighs exasperatedly. "Yes. We're done."

As they both fall quiet and start picking at their respective meals again, Castiel eyes Dean with uncertainty. It all sounded honest, but he still isn't sure he's comfortable with Dean's declarations of something like affection, like he's _looking out for him_ or something. Castiel doesn't need anything like that; he needs men below him who'll do as they're told when he tells them and think for themselves when he can't. That's it.

And then, somehow, words are spilling unbidden over his tongue before he even realises what he is saying. "I got made 2IC of the assault on Dog Green."

Dean nods, detachedly impressed. "Congrats," he says.

"Yeah," Castiel mutters. He supposes that chains of command don't mean all that much to medics; you go out, you grab a body, you stitch it up or send it home or declare it dead. End of. "Something like that."

"Aw, you'll do fine, sir," Dean says reassuringly. "And if you do get shot... well – that's what I'm there for." He makes snipping noises with his teeth and mimes sewing something, his hand making grand sweeping loops in the air. "Don't sweat it."

Something that has been bugging Castiel throughout the duration of this conversation, from the very second that Dean presumptuously invited himself to Castiel's table and sat down with an ice-breaker, finally becomes concrete in Castiel's mind. He stares across at Dean, eyes narrowing slightly as he takes in the sight before him – not the _man, _per say, with the big hands and narrow waist and straight nose, but rather the positioning of it all; the way he slouches as he eats, perfectly at ease, the way he gestures loosely with his free hand, and indeed, occasionally with his spoon as well, like they've been conversing like this all their lives. Like they're comfortable.

"We're not friends, Winchester," Castiel says cautiously.

Dean pretends to recoil violently. "God, no," he exclaims. "Wouldn't dream of it, sir."

Castiel eyes him, uncertain of how this all will end, and Dean stares straight back, green eyes open and honest, waiting for the judgement of him that he's obviously aware is currently underway. Castiel can find nothing to fault in Dean's demeanour, and there is something about his easy presence that is maybe just a _little _bit comfortable all, so there's no harm in it. Castiel makes a soft _hmph_-ing noise and settles back to his spaghetti.

And so that's the end of that. They sit together, eating their pasta and ice-cream respectively, and don't say a damn word more, but Castiel is glad of the company.

**June 3rd, 1944**

The loading of the boats begins early in the morning and doesn't stop for hours, an endless flood of men and machinery – all perfectly organised, having been rehearsed countless times, but from the outside it looks like chaos. LCVPs rolling up onto the battleships, heavily laden with artillery of every shape and size, weapons, jeeps; officers running around marshalling the movement. The air is thick with a mixture of fear and excitement; in the case of Baker Company, it's mostly excitement, especially since Private Reznik claims to have bumped into Supreme Commander Eisenhower in the latrine.

They're formed up in three ranks just out of the way of the loading until Captain Milton comes back to tell them it's their turn to collect their rations, and, upon reaching the collection point, they discover to their glee that the mess sergeants are also distributing two packs of cigarettes to each soldier, regardless of whether he smokes or not. Castiel stands to the side, counting the men as they pass through and redirecting them, and it is because of this that, towards the end of the queue, he notices that they are one man short. Dean is missing.

Castiel glances back behind him, scouring the crowds of men, and – there. Dean is knelt by the side of the road, some ten yards or so back, and he is writing something.

"Winchester," Castiel calls. Dean glances quickly towards him, acknowledging him with a short nod, but doesn't so much as lift his pen. Castiel frowns. "Sergeant Winchester!" Still no response.

Castiel grabs Sergeant Milligan to tell him to get the men to form up once they've received their rations before heading over to where Dean is frantically scribbling. Several sheets of paper are strewn across his thigh, on which he's leaning to write, being careful not to punch any holes through the paper. His left hand is trying all at once to hold one piece of paper still so that he can write on it and to keep the rest of the paper from blowing away, which doesn't seem to be going too well for him. He notices Castiel approaching and looks up again. "Sorry—" he mumbles around the ink-blotchy pen-lid stuck between his teeth. "One second, sir, I just—"

"Let's go, Winchester," Castiel says, standing over him. "Your letter can wait. You need to get your rations and cigarettes."

"Don't need cigarettes," Dean replies instantly, still concentrating on whatever he's writing.

Castiel lifts his eyebrows – Dean smokes as much as the other men in the company, if not more. "Well, you definitely need rations."

"Yeah – I just – one second." He's scrawling now, his words barely legible from what Castiel can see upside-down. "I just – need to—"

"You can finish it later—"

"Not if I want it sent before I get to France, I can't."

Castiel rolls his eyes. "Come on, I'm sure she'll wait for you."

Dean doesn't look up as he mutters, "It's for my little brother – so yeah, I should damn hope he's gonna wait."

However, Castiel can see him penning _Sergeant Dean Winchester, 91W1O_, and then he signs with a messy flourish and stands, collecting all the loose sheets in his hands and shuffling them into the right order. He takes the lid from between his teeth and clicks it back onto his pen, stuffing it haphazardly back into his pocket. He has the blue blossom of an ink stain on the corner of his bottom lip.

"Right," Dean says, folding the papers. "Sorry about that, sir. Where am I going now, then?"

Castiel directs him towards the rations' collection point, where the next company is already starting to line up, and Dean runs off to catch up.

The rest of Baker Company is already fell into three ranks, everything packed away into their haversacks, and waiting patiently to be loaded. Dean falls in a second later, hastily stuffing his rations into his pockets, and trying to be surreptitious about licking stamps and sticking them onto an envelope from the rear rank. Then Captain Milton comes to fetch them, and it's their time to move.

The Force O boats are all lined up towards the eastern end of the port, and the _Thomas Jefferson, _the one on which the 116th infantry regiment are going to be travelling, is at the far end. As they reach the boarding ramp, senior divisional officers hand out sheets of paper, one side covered in small, neat typewriting. "Don't read it now, son," one of them says when he hands one to Castiel, with the bored tone of a man who has said these same words to every one of the thousand men who have passed him so far. "You'll have plenty of time for reading when you get on board."

Castiel climbs up the ramp onto the deck, and stands to one side to supervise the rest of his company climbing aboard. As he counts the last few men, he can't help himself; he looks down at the piece of paper in his hand.

It reads,

_Soldiers, Sailors and Airmen of the Allied Expeditionary Force:_

_You are about to embark upon the Great Crusade, toward which we have striven these many months. The eyes of the world are upon you. The hope and prayers of liberty-loving people everywhere march with you._

Castiel skim-reads the rest – it's going to be dangerous, yes, they aren't all going to make it home, yes, they're going to make a difference, yes, victory will be ours – and skips to the bottom to read the name of the sender.

_General D. Eisenhowever, S.C.A.E.F_

His eyes widen. Well, damn. He folds it neatly into quarters and stows it for safe-keeping inside one of the waterproof ammunition bags he keeps in his jacket's breast pocket.

Then he looks up and over the port, where men and weapons are still being manoeuvred back and forth, trying to get ready for the imminent invasion. The sun is still hazy in the sky, but the swirls of salt air coming off the Channel are thinning the clouds, light falling as a dull shine on the matte paint of the vehicles still on land, glinting off British cap-badges. Beyond the walls of the dock, civilians are stretched as far as the eye can see, dissolving from individual faces to a great buzzing blur. They wave handkerchiefs, flags, chubby baby hands from their mother's arms.

Castiel can't help himself; he lifts a hand. There is no noticeable response – the rising and falling swell of noise is fairly constant – but then again, he supposes he's only a green-clothed speck among thousands on a grand boat for a grand procedure. However, just as he's lowering his hand, he sees one little girl pressed up against a railing along the waterfront, looking right at him and waving frantically. He gives a small smile, and briefly lifts his hand once more before turning away. As long as one person knows he was here, that's enough for him.


	3. Omaha

**OMAHA**

_June 4th 1944_

_Dear Sam,_

_Well, it's finally happening. These past few days the port here has been chaos, but now everything is set to go – weapons ready, boots polished, the boats all loaded except for one thing, which is us. By the end of the afternoon, though, I figure we'll be on our way. So far everything's been alright here, anyway. I managed to sort out my issues with Lieutenant Novak, so maybe he's not as enormous an asshole as I thought first. Don't get me wrong, he's still an asshole, but he's okay. I get why the guys like him so much though – he doesn't take shit from anyone, me included, but he's got a way about him like he expects the best of you, even if you've let him down a billion times before. Kind of makes you want to do better. I don't know. We had a long talk about books the other day – civil to one other and everything! – and it turns out he's a big Hemingway fan. I said I knew a pretty intense Hemingway fan myself and for a second it looked like he was ready to go into a whole debate about the merits of his writing until he realised I wasn't talking about me. Maybe I'll read some when I get back, when I've got time. Not that I'll get much opportunity for a while, though. Hey, maybe there'll just be books lying around Normandy for any soldier to pick up and leaf through. I wish_

_I don't know what it'll be really like – apparently England doesn't count, seeing as they all refer to The Continent here anyway, like it's a totally different world – although this ain't exactly going to be a celebrity world tour by the time we get off the boats on the other side of the Channel. I think I'm excited? I'm not sure. It's kind of hard to tell. But we know our drills, and we know each other, and everyone can work together so as not to let anyone get hurt – and if they do, then I can fix them up and it'll be fine. I think. Either way, I'll definitely come out alright, so there's no need to worry about me, I swear._

_Hell if I'm not worried about, you though. I still don't understand – what exactly happened with dad? Did he just lose it or was he drinking again or what? I'll write to him direct if you need me to, tell him to back off. You're twenty, for Christ's sake – he should be grateful you're still living under his roof at all, let alone misbehaving under it. It just sucks you didn't even get the date you wanted, although I guess there's nothing wrong with getting to know her friends. Seriously, I think she likes you. Just don't skive off any more revision workshops for her – I don't care how gorgeous she is, she's not worth failing a class for. I mean it. Well done on your first exam though, I'm proud of you. Only another four to go, right? I've got them written in my notebook, so I don't know when I'll be able to write next but I'll get the guys to wish you luck all the way from France!_

_I'll write again at some point soon, when I get into France. Wish me luck! And look after yourself, alright? Bitch._

_T-4 Sergeant Winchester_

_91W1O, Company B, 116__th__ Infantry Regiment_

_29__th__ Infantry Division_

_United States Army_

**June 4th 1944**

If there was little to do in Falmouth, there's even less to do aboard the _Thomas Jefferson._ The Force O ships are the first to move out, having the furthest to go, and are preceded only by the minesweepers; this means that the men of the 116th are trapped in a confined space for the longest. They sleep a lot; they gamble with any and all money they've got with them; some brought books. Some spend their time throwing up, but the majority of them have already got their sea-legs and are unbothered by the perpetual sway and rock. They listen to the radio, but hearing the German Axis Sally broadcast laughing at them, _I'll see you in the morning, boys!_ like she knows something unsettles some of the men, even if it's the same bullshit she's been spewing for the past month.

Castiel is jittery. He knows most of his men are raring to go, all swapping stories about how they're going to gun down their first Kraut, how they've been waiting so long to finally get going, and, to some extent, Castiel feels the same, but the longer he spends on this ship, drifting slowly towards the enemy, the tighter the knots in his stomach coil. According to Inias, Lieutenant Hester resents Castiel enormously for taking his position as second-in-command, and Castiel is more aware than ever that failure simply is not an option.

However, being around the rest of Baker, especially his own platoon, always serves to settle his nerves. He has never made any comment about being nervous, but the others somehow seem to sense it anyway, and are doing their best to distract him – asking him if he wants to join their game of cards, offering him a piece of their D-rations' bars, telling him every joke they know. They don't let him sit quietly at the end of the mess table where he can stew in his thoughts; they drag him into the middle and get him involved.

"We ain't gonna need to speak French, are we?" worries Private Corbett. "I don't know any – man, I took science in high school instead."

"Hey, wouldn't it be German we're supposed to worry about?" Dean Winchester cuts in. "Surely that must be more important."

"Who needs to be able to speak Kraut?" Zeddmore says, grinning. "Just drum 'em, let your rifle do the talking." He gets a resounding cheer for that comment, a few sage nods and _hear, hear_.

"Oh yeah, sure thing," Dean says pointedly. He rolls his shoulders back in exaggerated movements, back arching. He has shed his combat jacket; his T-shirt stretches across his chest. "Let me just warm up to get in the killing zone, why don't I?"

Zeddmore laughs. "Okay, Doc, _you _might need some languages."

"Well, fuck me," Dean says. Castiel watches the shape of his mouth around the words. "I don't know a damn word."

"Ah, don't worry," Pat Barnes says, spinning his fork in lazy gesticulating circles. "After all, we got translators for that shit."

Dean shrugs and settles back to his dinner.

"Ladies, you'd best just let me lead the way," Garth Fitzgerald drawls, holds his arms out wide – knocking Corporal Harvelle's glass over as he does – and smiles smugly. "French just happens to be my area of expertise. Mercy boko and all that jazz, you know."

Harvelle recoils back from his table, now covered in the water washing over from his tipped glass. "Hey, watch it!" he says crossly, and he shoves Garth hard. "And, anyway, it's _merci beaucoup, _you asshole."

On the other side of the table, out of reach of Harvelle's irritation, the younger privates chorus a girly _ooooo-ooh;_ Gallagher lapses into giggles so intense that he chokes on his dinner and every man at the table very quickly draws dibs on not being the one to resuscitate him if he goes down.

"I know some French, actually," Castiel says thoughtfully, pushing the last of his meat absently back and forth across his plate. "Years back, seventh grade or so - this kid on my street bought a book and he told us all about it."

"What, you mean that jackass Johnny Ascott on Fourth who thought he was hot shit?" Inias asks from a few places down the bench, and he snorts derisively into his food when Castiel nods. "Christ. Fucker thought a few shitty phrases made him some sex bomb."

"Go on, then, sir," says Dean, and Castiel looks up, surprised, when he realises that Dean is talking to him and not Inias. Dean's lips twist sideways a little, baby start of a smile, and he nods encouragingly. "Teach me something."

Castiel breathes an almost-laugh, lips barely parting. He has no idea where it comes from, but he cocks an eyebrow and says, "I got an essential phrase for you – hold onto this one," and then he's thinking of all the immature things that seventh-grade boys used to laugh about, and he's looking at the shape of Dean's lips around his empty fork, that goddamn oral fixation, the way he plays the tines against his lower lip to leave little pink dents – and Castiel's brain just switches off and he says, "_Je veux te faire une pipe._"

Inias smothers a laugh into his drink, even as Castiel realises the blatant idiocy of what he's just done, but Dean is oblivious, just grinning wide and trying to repeat it, stumbling over the foreign vowels: "_Che verde fay_ – wait, what was it? _Che verde fair oo peep?_"

There is nothing Castiel can do. Inias is slowly reddening with the attempt not to ruin the moment, and from the way Castiel can feel heat burning deep on his neck and his ears, he might be going the same way soon for very different reasons. The other men are chattering among themselves trying to work out what's happening - _no, man, I heard 'peep' – it's about strippers, I swear – _and Castiel realises he's just got to get this over with as fast as possible so that they can all move on.

"Look, don't hurt yourself, alright, I was only screwing with you," Castiel says, and as Inias realises that he has been given to go-ahead to laugh and finally explodes, Castiel leans back casually in his seat. He smirks, thin and cocky, and fixes Dean's eyes unabashedly – it's the only way to get away with this – when he says, "It means _I want to suck your dick_."

Dean's face does not fall at the embarrassment; his expression doesn't change at all – eager, rapt, as he waited for the English explanation – but now something is different. "Ouch – bitchy," he exclaims, shaking his head as though he should have known better than to fall for it. "Gosh, and I trusted you, sir," he goes on, sighing, and it's all there, the silly half-smile, the crinkled laugh-lines, but the truth of it is in the eyes. Steady, dark, fiercely quiet – and never once leaving Castiel's.

Inias, still cackling maniacally, excuses himself and leaves to get another drink of water to calm himself down, while the privates burst into fresh peals of laughter and dopey imitations of Dean's poor attempts to mimic the French. Castiel just shrugs, nonchalant, and lifts his eyebrows at Dean in an attempt to fight the nervous rush of heat, the colour creeping brazen on his neck and hands, the speeding stutter of his blood beneath his skin.

Someone is speaking, distantly as though a million miles away – something about being careful of looking out for French queers, some crude joke with a gesture – and conversation is, thankfully, steering in a safer direction.

The moment is gone, except that Dean, still eating, bites at his lower lip, runs the tip of his tongue over it afterwards, and for the second time in five minutes, Castiel feels his sense of self-preservation slip; his eyes drop instinctively to follow the movement, and his own mouth is suddenly paper-dry as if in echo – _don't do it don't do it – _and he licks his lips, slowly. Dean's gaze is heavy on him, almost tangible. Castiel doesn't want to look up, but he finds Dean's eyes again, and - _shit. _The heat spiking in Castiel's belly has built and built to a stage where he must be unconsciously projecting his own desperation, because the weight of the sheer, naked desire in Dean's eyes hits him like a collapsing building, crushes him breathless.

"...Novak. _Novak._ Hey – someone grab Lieutenant Novak, will you?"

A hand grips Castiel's shoulder tight, shakes him, and he looks over, startled. "What?"

Down at the other end of the table, Captain Milton is stood, hands behind his back. Standing just behind are Lieutenants Alistair and Hester. Whatever this means, it isn't good.

Castiel lifts a hand to acknowledge that he's seen them, and starts quickly gathering up his things. He doesn't look at Dean; he can already feel his heartbeat thundering in his ears, and his hands are shaky in picking up his tray. He ditches his dinner at the disposal station, and follows Milton out of the mess hall, and up the stairs onto the deck.

"Is everything alright, sir?" Hester asks, but even before Milton speaks, Castiel is looking past him, out at the sea. Yesterday's good weather was promising, but today it has turned; the sky is dark, thick with heavy clouds that promise rain, and he knows it doesn't bode well.

"Lieutenants, the operation has been postponed," Milton says bluntly, getting right to the point, and Castiel's heart sinks. "The assault's been re-scheduled for the sixth – all the same timings, just a day later, if the weather improves. We're changing course to circle the Isle of Wight to see how it goes, but if we may have to call the whole thing off and return to base if it doesn't clear up."

Castiel swallows hard. "Yes, sir," he choruses with the other officers at his side.

"See to it that all of your men are informed."

"Yes, sir."

Milton nods curtly. "That'll be all. You're dismissed."

"Yes, sir."

It is already starting to rain.

**6****th**** June 1944**

Oh-one-hundred hours. The boatswain's whistle rings out shrill and ear-piercing, and as the decks fall into silence, the radio can be heard. "_Now hear this - all assault troops report to your debarkation areas. Repeat, all assault troops report to your debarkation areas_."

Castiel is already awake. There are some things you don't simply sleep easy before, and staging a hundred-and-fifty-thousand strong invasion of the best-defended beach in Nazi-occupied France is one of them.

He sits up to see the dark shape of his musette-bag and M1 at the foot of his bed, waiting for him. His clothes settle against his skin, cold and stiff. He walks swiftly out onto the deck; he and the hundreds of others heading to disembark move as one.

Oh-three-ten hours. The entirety of the 116th and 16th Regiments are gathered on the deck, lined up neatly by company and then, within that, by platoon. The staff officers are grouped loosely, interrupting the grave silence only occasionally and only then to discuss the morning ahead. No-one cracks any jokes. Even Gabriel, when Castiel catches sight of him two platoons over, is solemn. There is none of the taunting laughter and confidence that there had been the morning before; now there are just rows upon rows of soldiers waiting to be delivered.

Positioned at the front, Castiel is able to glance along the length of the line, and while he is aware that they are formed up with American soldiers of all shapes, sizes and colours, he cannot tell the difference between any of them. Every man, officer or enlisted, infantry or artillery, is faceless.

Castiel turns back to face the front.

Captain Milton stands at the head of the company, beside Castiel's platoon. He'll be going in with them; he wants to be one of the first on the beach. Castiel can't imagine why.

"Better weather this morning," Milton says softly, looking at the sky beyond the boats, which is still dark, cloudy, and ominous. Castiel does not say anything.

Oh-three-fifteen hours. One-platoon is the first to go; Castiel, as platoon leader, is the first to climb over the side of the LCT and down the salt-damp ropes into the landing craft below. He then gets to helping the rest of his men into the craft.

Oh-three-thirty hours. The LCVP is lowered into the English Channel, and the individual features of the men on the deck are lost behind the metal, including Inias. Castiel swallows.

The dismount has been as even and easy as it was any of the times that they practiced, but this is not a practice. The skipper guns the engine noisily and they set off for Omaha.

The LCVPs are small, cramped, cold. Each craft is stuffed to the brim; the one in which Castiel's platoon are crammed contains a jeep full of ammunition, and a DD tank as well as the thirty men of one-platoon. The smaller soldiers, like Alfie Wilson, get crushed by the others whenever a particularly large wave buffets the sides of the boats; the larger ones try to keep their limbs tucked in close; almost everyone, indiscriminate of size or strength, throws up at least once. They are chilled to the bone, and damp too, as waves crest sharply off the metallic sides of the craft and spray high, and yet they are all sweating. The waves are rough. They cling to the sides to keep from falling on top of each other, but they can't hold their stomachs still. Castiel can hear someone praying; his fingers twist under the collar of his shirt and find his own crucifix. It's cold to the touch.

With shaky fingers, Castiel takes his cigarette tin from the pocket of his combats and removes one cigarette. He decides there and then, in a sudden rush of childish sentimentality, that he will smoke half a cigarette here, in this LCVP on the way to Normandy. He will only smoke half and only half, and then he'll tamp it out and put it back, and that cigarette will remain a charred and unfinished stub in the tin in his pocket until he goes home. And then, on the boat back to England when this whole affair is over, he'll smoke the other half.

He clicks the tin shut again – nearly loses it halfway across the boat when a wave hits them hard, starboard, and throws him sideways into Sergeant Barnes.

"Anyone got a light?" he asks, raising his voice over the roar of waves and rattle of engines.

Private Gideon tosses a lighter to him. He catches it, easy, and flicks it to the end of his cigarette. Over the dull red burn of it, he sees Dean, on the far side of the craft, watching him. His eyes are colourless in the dim light, but sharp and focused. Castiel presses his lips tighter together around the cigarette, pulls hard, and hands Gideon's light back. He exhales smoke, and loses sight of Dean in the cloud.

They spend what seems like far too long in the LCVPs – even by oh-five-hundred, the bombardment has only just started, explosions screaming through sound barriers, hot curls of flames on the horizon beyond what Castiel can see. It's the worst noise he has ever heard, so loud it rattles his ear-drums and threatens to split his temples in half, but he's reassured by it; every German killed by the Navy or the Air Corps means one less German to kill on the beach.

Oh-six-hundred hours.

The skipper yells something down to them, and Castiel suddenly panics when he realises that he hasn't heard what was said. By now, he has finished his half-cigarette and is twitching for the lack of something to do with his hands; mostly, they shake.

"Captain Milton?" he calls across the craft. "What's—"

"_Thirty seconds_!" Milton yells back to the whole platoon. "Be ready to move – don't waste any time. Clear out of the craft and out of the water as fast as possible, keep your actions clear, and for God's sake, don't do anything stupid! I'll see you on the other side."

Castiel's fingers tighten on his rifle. Thirty seconds.

Then, almost as soon as he has stopped to consider the thirty seconds ahead of them, it's over. They crash into the sandbar, hard, and the ramp drops and someone is screaming – but _why_, what's happening - because there's a chatter of gunfire, a spray of blood and Castiel is blinking it out of his eyes. Why is there blood already?

"_Over the sides_!" Sergeant Milligan screams, and suddenly the whole picture swirls back around Castiel – he sees the shredded body of someone he used to be familiar with, limp at the front of the craft; he sees the thin thread of blood twisting down over Captain Milton's nose, the smouldering dark hole when one eye used to be; he sees the thunder and ping of bullets eating up the metal in front of his feet.

He grabs the side of the craft, hauls himself bodily up – easy as the six-foot-wall on the obstacle course at Camp Kilmer, easy – and over into the water.

Castiel can swim, but he sinks fast. The water is stunningly, blindingly cold, dark with metal, and disorientating; Castiel thrashes, kicks and flails to find the surface, but can't – where is he even going – which way is up – _where the fuck is the beach _– and as his chest strains for lack of oxygen and he kicks out wildly under the water, he realises that it is a very real possibility that he might just drown and never reach the shore. He lashes out frantically, swimming like his mother taught him, but the weight of his equipment is too much and he's sinking down to the bottom faster than he can swim up. He wriggles out of his musette bag, drops his extra clips of ammunition, tries to keep his rifle but he fumbles and he doesn't have time to dive to find it because his lungs are _screaming_, his head a beating war-drum beneath the hollows of his skull – and then he's swimming up and up and up and he's going to die here _he's going to die here _and up and his head breaks the surface and he gasps.

For now, he doesn't give a shit that he's lost all his equipment and all his men; he's just overwhelming grateful that he didn't fucking _drown _in the first ten seconds of the Normandy invasion. He swims almost blindly, trying to blink through the sting of salt, and then eventually his feet hit sand, skid, and he drags himself upright.

The sight before him is a punch to the stomach.

Before him, Omaha Beach stretches out bright, pure and golden. It's something out of a Hollywood movie; at the shoreline, about a half mile ahead of him, there are shingles, great, smooth grey stones, and then, after a short section of swampy dirt, the beach slopes gently up into a grassy bluff, perfect and serene. In the distance beyond that, the twisting spire of a church is visible, along with neat red-roofed houses and concrete German bunkers. It's idyllic.

Moreover, it's untouched.

Castiel's eyes widen when he realises that Omaha Beach is not rubble and destruction as he had been promised – that, in fact, the bombardments have not made so much as a dent in the German defences – that somehow, everything has gone terribly wrong – but that's all the time he can spare to consider what _the fuck _has happened to their air and naval support, because there's a war on, after all.

He heaves himself forwards, running even though his sodden combats are weighing him down like a physical burden despite having thrown off his bags and his weapon and his ammunition, running even though the flickering sound of machine-gun-fire is all around him. He can see bodies nearby, leaking red into the water, but further ahead than that, he can see the tall metal hedgehog obstacles set up by the Germans to prevent effective tank-landings, and he can see the rounds clattering off the side of it, so that's the direction he heads.

As he gets closer, water sloshing up wildly around his legs, Castiel picks out shapes huddled behind the obstacles; as he gets closer still, he can identify one of them.

"Zeddmore," he yells, and then he trips on something – looking back, he sees that he had fallen over a floating human arm, bearing a watch that Castiel tries very hard not to recognise. He scrambles to his feet, tries again. "_Zeddmore_!"

This time, the private looks around, and his face crumples with relief. "Thank god you're here, sir," he shouts back over the noise, and then embarrassedly confesses, "We had no idea what to do!"

Castiel's heart clenches in his throat. He glances at the men clustered around Zeddmore; a handful of other privates from his platoon, all wet and shaken up and confused. No non-coms. Certainly no Captain Milton.

Shit. Captain Milton.

Castiel takes a deep, slow breath.

It's okay. It doesn't matter that they've lost their commanding officer – they just need to find their second-in-command, and _he'll _know what to do and then everything will be alright – but the problem is that for some reason Castiel can't for the life of him remember who was appointed 2IC. Wasn't it Lieutenant Hester? No, Lieutenant Hester cracked under pressure; the role was given to someone else...

And then he remembers.

"Shit," Castiel whispers under his breath.

"Sir, what's going on?" asks Private Wilson. "Where are the other companies? Where are the tanks? Sir, I thought they were supposed to—"

"Sir, what do we do—"

"Lieutenant, I'm too young to die, I've got a—"

"Shut the fuck up," a familiar voice cuts in, and if Castiel had the time or the presence of mind to be relieved that Dean made it off the LCVP, he would, but he doesn't.

Taking a second for another deep breath, Castiel looks around the side of the obstacle to assess the situation properly. It is another half mile or so of shallow water, scattered with obstacles, lost weapons and bodies, until the shoreline; it's about three hundred yards or so beyond that until the bluffs. The cement blockades in front of the narrow roads up from the beach have not been destroyed as was promised; the concrete bunkers bearing German machine-guns and light artillery have not been destroyed either.

Castiel turns back to face the others and does a quick head-count. The privates, plus Dean, make five.

"Right," he says, making an executive decision. "We can't stay here to wait to see who else has made it - on my word, we're going to make a run up towards the shoreline, up to that fallen minesweeper before our next move. No stopping at obstacles; no stopping for anyone you recognise. One long sprint, like we've practiced. Winchester, you're with me."

Dean jerks back a little in surprise, like Castiel has forgotten he isn't infantry. "Sir, I haven't got a weapon—"

"Join the club," Castiel bites out, flexing his empty hands nervously even as he speaks. He peers around the side of the obstacle one last time. "Right – _move_!"

And they're up and they're running.

Mortars fall like rain here – rain, if rain hit the ground like a detonated building, shook your bones almost inside out, screamed fissures inside your brain to send you crawling back home – spraying sea-water over their heads a twisted mix of red and blue. Castiel barely notices the water cascading off his helmet; he's focused on the drag of his feet through the water, trying not to fall over as the tide catches at his ankles and fills his boots.

His own breathing is thunderous inside his head, _gasp gasp gasp, _his hands in front of him empty and naked, clutching blindly as though he can haul himself free of the last snatching tendrils of the ocean. He can hear the clumsy crash of what seems to be left of his platoon behind him, but the splashes seem dimmer than when they started – who have they lost? – and Castiel is struggling to breathe, every muscle in his body begging to lie down, to crumple, or at the very least to stop trying to run in a condition where running is impossible.

Finally, after what seems like years, Castiel crashes down behind the minesweeper, where the water is only just above the knees, and Dean falls heavily beside him, gasping for air as the explosions whistle and roar above them.

"Where even are we?" Dean asks, flattening a hand over his chest as he fights to get his breath back.

"We're right on target, Sergeant; the appropriate question would be where the fuck is everyone else?" Castiel corrects, shifting the weight of the combat jacket on his shoulders.

Dean laughs at that, even under the circumstances, and the sound is light and warming even when Castiel's hands are shaking from the cold and the adrenaline. Castiel glances back to see the other four – no – _shit_ – three privates bearing down on them, stumbling and swearing incoherently as they drop into a crouch alongside the obstacle.

Up on the beach are more bodies. Castiel thinks he glimpses someone familiar, from the 116th, Able Company, sprawled out in several pieces a few metres along the sand, but then again, everyone is a little familiar, and there are a lot of bodies; the bullets rattling right over their heads threaten a similar fate. Castiel twists back to look the other way, trying to see if he can see anyone else from their company, much less from their platoon. There are men wandering confusedly up from the sea, but they're too far back to identify and too far back to wait for – there are shapes huddled behind obstacles, shapes running blindly up the sand, shapes screaming orders, getting hit, falling back, shapes kneeling around other shapes, significantly smaller shapes with a greater distribution over the immediate area—

"So what now, sweetheart?"

Castiel looks back sharply at Dean. There is a shallow graze along one cheek, blood smearing half-heartedly down his jaw, but underneath that is the same lopsided smile, teeth nudging at his lower lip, and it's all so devastatingly _normal_ that Castiel almost smiles back.

He turns to the privates instead.

"Zeddmore, Miller, Wilson, how're you feeling?"

Zeddmore sways woozily on his knees like he might throw up; Wilson grits his teeth so hard he looks like he might bust his jaw, but he nods stoically. Miller tugs on the front of his helmet. "Never better, sir. Should we lay down suppressive fire?" he shouts.

"No, there's no point," Castiel cuts him off. "You're not going to get anything done firing down here."

The problem is the height difference; the bluffs rise smoothly above them to nearly thirty feet, and are seemingly without blemish. Now that they are closer, they can see that there are in fact dips and ledges high above them which conceal pillboxes and machine-gun posts, but trying to aim at them and have any real effect would be less than useless. Their best bet is, first of all, to get off the goddamn beach.

"Sir?" Dean asks. Castiel glances over at him and sees that he is looking away, into the distance behind them, at the men scattered all over the beach and drifting in the shallows. Dean drags himself back to focus on Castiel, and his face is severe. "Permission to go and do my _actual _job?"

Castiel has a moment of weakness. "Permission denied," he replies bluntly. "I need you, Dean."

Dean stares back at him, his lips pressed into a thin line of disapproval, but he doesn't complain. His eyes are steady on Castiel's, and trusting. _I don't believe that you're making the right choice_, he says, _but I'll do whatever you ask._

Castiel tears his eyes away. "Prepare to move," he orders them, raising his voice over the screeching cry of mortars falling nearby. He takes a deep breath, braces his empty hands on his knees to push up. "_Move_."

Every muscle burning with protest, Castiel drags himself to his feet and sets off sprinting. He distantly remembers the intensive training preparing for this day, far away as though in a dream, and remembers the men complaining that after the training, combat couldn't possibly be all that bad – they were wrong.

He's barely three steps from the minesweeper when his ears is filled with a whistling scream, louder and louder and shaking through his whole body – he half-twists back to yell for his men to get down, when he remembers something one of the veterans had said: _if you can hear the shell, you're fine. You're fucked when you can't hear the shell. _He twists back to face the front, suddenly made bold – he can hear the mortars hiss and scream all around him, and that makes him invincible. He keeps running.

They duck down at the next obstacle barely ten seconds, long enough to ensure that they're all okay – Wilson's eyes are welling up; Zeddmore actually does throw up this time – and then they're up and away.

The water is getting shallow now, swirling around his knees as opposed to around his waist, and he can move faster although still very conscious of the possibility of falling flat on his face with all the sea-water filling his boots.

Somewhere behind Castiel there is a crackle and a high, tortured scream, and the warm light of flames rolling upwards. It's a dumb, rookie move, but Castiel can't help it – he turns back to see what happened, and he sees the flames consuming one of the tanks which had made a brave attempt at getting onshore, the fire licking hungrily around the men trying to climb out of it – and then he sees Dean's face, wide-eyed, the movement of his mouth – _"GET DOWN!"_ – and for the first time, Castiel notes that everything has gone strangely silent.

And then there's a slam into the meat of his left shoulder like a crack with a steel-plated baseball bat, and if he wasn't down already, he is now.

He finds himself on his hands and knees in the water, smashed low enough that his hair drags in the surf and sticks against his forehead, salty – and he doesn't entirely know what's happening with the ringing in his ears, the distant yell of _"sir – Lieutenant", _the pain that throbs through his entire body, a heavy disabling pulse that's just slightly out of his time with his heartbeat. Shakily, he tries to stand up, wondering what the fuck just happened.

Suddenly Dean is right in front of him, wrapping one hand around Castiel's upper arm and hauling him upright. "Lieutenant," he's yelling, like a million miles away. "Can you hear me?"

"Fuck off, I'm fine," Castiel says, pushing at him, and ignoring the pain that sears immediately all up one arm at the movement. "_Keep moving_!"

The run up to the next obstacle seems longer now, almost endless. Every footstep sends a fresh wave of pain through the left side of his body and the beach before him swirls and spins in a shades of brown and grey as the sharp ache of it clouds his vision. He's exhausted – his boots are full of water, he can feel the mother of all blisters coming up on the back of his heel, his combats are sodden and sticky and weighing him down, and his legs are just plain _tired_. He trips over a lone boot – no, make that lone boot complete with leg – and one of his knees buckles, but he staggers forwards to hide the weakness.

The next obstacle is only a few metres away.

When Castiel falls behind it, however, he discovers that's already occupied by a number of other lost and frightened soldiers. They press themselves flat against the metal to make more room, their boots scuffing up sand and water. They stare up at Castiel. Not one of them looks a day over twenty.

"Who's in command here?" Castiel asks – but he glances over their ranks and, with a sinking heart, knows the answer even before they say it.

"Uh, you are, sir," one of them says shakily. "Company A, sir – we had a captain but he—"

"That doesn't matter," Castiel interrupts, his voice scratched hoarse as he tries to make himself heard over the noise - the frantic yells of soldiers, the clattering roar of explosion, the hiss of flames. "Follow us, you'll be alright." He pauses to take a deep breath, his lungs still protesting the hard work of getting this far, and glances around the men that he has at his disposal. "We're going to move up over the shingle to the seawall. We should be out of range of the gunners then. It's not far – a hundred metres or so. One quick sprint and we'll be away – understood?"

"Sir," Wilson suddenly cuts in, gasping for breath; Castiel turns to see him bent double, his knees given out and waist-deep in water. His eyes are watery red like he's putting all his effort into not crying. "Sir, my ankle – I think I twisted it again, I can't – I can't—"

"Yes, you can," Castiel says. "You can't stay here, Wilson. The only way out of here is forwards, you hear me?"

Wilson's lower lip shudders petulantly but he balls his hands into little fists. "Yes, sir."

"Alright, A Company, you coming? Prepare to move, everyone!" Castiel risks a quick look around the side of the obstacle, surveying the land ahead of them. The shingle isn't too far, and after that things should be relatively easy... if only the Navy or the engineers or _someone, _fucking _anybody_, would get the fuck in here and blow those blockades. Castiel looks back around his men, watching those who have weapons nervously shifting their grips. "_Move_."

They run. The water is shallow now, and they can all-out sprint like they're supposed to, like they were trained - and Castiel is still breathing rough and ragged, his whole body shaking with the exertion, one side going numb from the pain still coursing through it – but he's suddenly gripped with the profound sense that everything is going to be alright. Once they get to the seawall, they can climb over it and away, finish the Krauts, and round it off as a job well done. Meet up with the rest of Company B, have a cup of joe and settle in for the next stage in winning the war.

Two things happen then.

First, there is a short, high cry somewhere behind Castiel, familiar enough that he not only knows what has just happened, but whom to.

Second, he sees the barbed wire.

Castiel crunches up towards the shingles, his ears filled with the sound of his feet slamming down over stones, sea-shells and tattered military uniforms, and he runs over the open stretch of sand, and that's when he sees that the shingle is covered with a tangled hedge of barbed wire all the way towards the seawall.

He freezes, unsure what to do. There is no way forwards. There is no way back. He drops to one knee, makes himself a smaller target, and, in the pause while he plans what to do next, he looks back to confirm what he already knew.

Wilson's weak ankle has given out, and he is now crumpled in a vague backwards direction, his uniform blood-dark and tattered where gunfire took advantage of the momentary weakness. "It's okay, it's okay," Dean can be distantly heard saying, as he lays Wilson carefully down on the wet sand. Blood dribbles up over his lips as Wilson tries to speak, still tries not to cry. "Look, it's not even that bad, okay? It's not even that bad—"

Castiel looks away.

He has bigger problems on his hands.

There is no way across the shingle until either the wire-cutting team arrive or someone turns up with bangalores. It seems that the posts of the German gunners angle their fire in a way that covers every inch of the beach as far as the shingle, but cannot fire on anyone near the barbed wire, which is good; on the other hand, they're now left out in the open, exposed to artillery fire.

The rest of the team – those who made it, Dean discounted – skid and drop to their knees in an evenly spread-out line along the embankment either side of Castiel.

"Sir," Max Miller pants, the nearest to Castiel, "do we have—"

"No," Castiel cuts in, pre-empting anything Miller could say. "We don't have anything." He glances wildly from one side to the other, desperately searching for something they can use for cover for the mortars coming down around them, shaking the ground up like earthquakes, and each one scattering metal confetti sharp enough to rip grown men into ribbons.

"Now what to we do, then, sir?" one of the privates of A Company asks fearfully.

Castiel sets his jaw – there is no way around this. "Now," he says, "we dig in... and we wait."

And wait they do. There is nothing else _to _do, except perhaps digging frantically in the dirt with their bare hands to try and find some shelter for themselves.

Oh-eight-hundred hours. In the next wave of LCVPs onto the shore, there are engineers, there are light artillery teams, and – thank God – there are wire-cutters. The blockades are still not blown and the draws are not cleared, but the barbed wire is blown, cut, or otherwise disposed of, and, led by General Cota himself, the men of Companies A and B are able to break through to climb the bluff.

Oh-eight-thirty. Castiel goes first in his little group, but he can't help twisting back before the embankment to scan the chaos below. Dean is nowhere to be seen. But, then again, they all have jobs to do and Dean is busy doing his. He has people to save, wounds to repair. Castiel, on the other hand, has a platoon to lead.

They join forces with another disorganised half-platoon of soldiers, and they follow the engineers up the rugged slope between draws D-1 and D-3, avoiding mine-tape where it has been diligently lain, and avoiding bodies where the mine tape was not laid quickly enough. At the site of one of the blown mines, Castiel finds an M1 which doesn't look to be in too bad condition, and it only has the one clip, but he's glad to have a weapon in his hands.

They climb steadily, running where they're exposed to snipers and machine-guns, crawling when the scream of light artillery guns rumbles in their ears. They send three-man teams into pillboxes – grenadier, two riflemen – finishing Krauts, taking enemy positions.

Oh-nine-hundred hours. Castiel turns his rifle on another human being and kills for the first time.

Oh-nine-twenty-five. The sun is high in the sky, and halcyon.

They work through the abandoned village of Hamel-au-Prêtre, the fairytale red-roofed buildings that Castiel had seen first arriving upon on the beach - shattered now, as the air corps finally got their shit together – and head in towards Vierville-sur-mer. It's less than a mile up from the beach, but they have to work through defended hedgerows, thick and thorny and higher than a man's head. It seems to Castiel a near-impenetrable labyrinth every step of the way to Vierville, and but they reach their destination with only minor German conflict. Castiel doesn't even come to the end of his one clip of ammunition.

Twelve-hundred hours. Vierville is unoccupied, save for small groups of French civilians who stare, scared and hostile, as the U.S Army rush through and start clearing buildings to secure the village. Once every building has been checked, every possible enemy position, they set about establishing a battalion command post. The 29th infantry divisional headquarters is being set up in a stately home not far south, Chateau de Vaumicel, and so Castiel picks one of the larger houses on the southern side of town, anxious to be close in case he's needed for anything. The title _company commanding officer _is still swirling endlessly around inside his skull and it's heavy, bearing down like a lead weight at the top of his spine.

Fourteen-hundred-twenty hours. There is chaos. There is some misunderstanding somewhere between a radioman and the U.S Naval fleet, because the Vierville church spire suddenly draws fire from the sea, and Castiel and his disorganised band of men have to dash for cover from the falling mortars and chunks of stone. While huddled gracelessly in a ditch, lips forming _please god please not today_, he finds another dusty half-clip of ammunition.

Fifteen-hundred hours. Attempts to establish communications are mostly unsuccessful. Men are badly scattered, and Castiel manages to find a four-platoon radioman, but signal is poor and they get through to two-platoon only briefly, and only for long enough to hear a crackle of Private Pond yelling, _still on the beach – Dog White is not – opening draws – artillery reinforcem— _and then he's gone.

Castiel is just inside one of the houses on the outskirts of Vierville, poring over some photos of the land between Vierville and the beach - especially the ground to the south, where there are at least two German positions that need to be taken care of – when there is a rap on the door-frame. He looks up to see Private Miller standing just outside. "Sir, Major Campbell's outside to see you."

"Thank you." Castiel folds his maps back up, tucking them away into the breast pocket of his combat jacket, grabs his helmet from the floor by his feet, and follows Blake outside to where the regimental S-3 is standing, eyes narrowed, looking out over the defensive positions around the outside of the town. He's heavily built, almost portly, except that Castiel knows he wouldn't have made it this far if he was actually fat, and his pale hair is thin over his scalp. Castiel clears his throat. "Sir, you asked to see me?"

Campbell turns to him and a frown immediately creases his features, his eyes flickering over Castiel sceptically. "I asked to see the CO."

Castiel doesn't react. "I am the CO, sir."

Major Campbell eyes him. "What happened to Captain Milton?"

"Nothing good, sir." He tries not to let it bother him that the Major is so clearly disheartened by Castiel taking over the position. "Will a new CO be found, or—"

"No, you'll remain in command until further notice. If you've made it this far, you should be able to handle it," Campbell says dismissively. "What's your name?"

"First Lieutenant Novak, sir."

"First Lieutenant Novak, the D-1 draw is still unsecured," Campbell tells him, his voice hard. "Vierville is currently the weakest part of the beachhead; there's heavy German artillery firing upon the beach and we have men still trying to get inland. I need that draw cleared. How many men do you have?"

Castiel draws himself up taller. "Twenty-three, sir."

"Twenty-three? Well. Good luck."

Major Everett's closing words aren't particularly confidence-inspiring, but Castiel supposes it's honest. Only twenty-three men, and less than half of them from his own company... but they don't have a choice.

They move out to try and outflank it – unsuccessfully. The Germans have heavier weapons and more ammunition and are fixed into a stable position where they can see Castiel's team approaching. They're at a stale-mate, neither able to progress, and the sky is starting to grow dark now. Castiel summons the radioman and calls back to the Vierville command post to ask about the possibility of artillery support, but apparently there are tanks on the road between Vierville and St. Laurent who are currently occupying most of the available firepower, and it's not possible. He hangs up, resigned.

Twenty-hundred hours. There is no movement from the Germans, and Castiel certainly isn't going to try an offensive manoeuvre now that they have no visibility and little intel on the road ahead. As long as the German position doesn't call in any artillery in the middle of the night, they're both stuck where they are until morning. Castiel refuses to retreat, and so he gives the order to dig in.

He keeps men on defensive positions to the west, towards the German position, and to the east, in case anyone should come looking for them from Vierville, but otherwise everyone gets to digging shell scrapings to sleep in, either with their entrenching tools, if they managed to keep the weight of it with them during the assault, or, in Castiel's case, with their bare hands.

As though it isn't enough that Castiel is in constantly increasing pain with what is more than likely a giant piece of metal stuck into his shoulder, the ground is baked dry and hard, and trying to break through the surface layer without a shovel is agony. Corporal Ash Lowell offers him the use of his entrenching tool, but Castiel declines, saying that he'll borrow it once Ash has finished his own foxhole.

In retrospect, it's a mistake, and Castiel sorely wishes he hadn't tried to be selfless. He can feel the muscles in his arms starting to give out, his injured shoulder in particular screaming to be allowed to rest. He is just beginning to consider whether they'd be safe enough at this stage just lying flat in the middle of the road, when he sees a group of unfamiliar figures heading up towards them from the Vierville road. They are barely more than silhouettes, and Castiel pays them little mind; they wouldn't have got through Vierville if they were enemy, and it's the sentry's duty to take care of them.

"Halt – advance one for recognition," Lance Corporal Doe, on sentry, can be heard speaking quietly to those approaching. He reels off the password they'd agreed on prior to embarking on the LCVPs, in case of separation. "Victor yoke."

"Tare item. Christ, that was a fucking day and a half, huh?"

Castiel looks up so sharply that the muscles in his shoulders pull tight and pain sears white-hot through his back and left arm. His vision blurs for a second or two, so that he can't see the silhouettes to check, but he would know Dean Winchester's voice anywhere.

He watches as Doe tilts his flashlight beam over the men gathered at the edge of their camp, to check their numbers and that no enemy have slipped unnoticed in their numbers while they were patrolling down, and something lightens in Castiel's chest as he sees the dull glow fall, sure enough, on Dean.

"Alright," Doe says, at last, and he waves a hand to let them through. "Keep your voices down and go report to Lieutenant Novak."

The soldiers pick their way carefully through the half-completed shell scrapings and line up in front of Castiel; he stands to greet them. "Evening, gentlemen," he says tiredly. "Are you alright?"

A few of them exchange glances and dark chuckles, but the general consensus is, _not too bad – can't complain. _They shrug their shoulders, readjust their weapons in their arms, and ask what's going on. Castiel explains the objective, the position they're holding now, and tells them to go ahead and dig in until the morning – oh-three-thirty hours reveille. At that point, they all turn away, except for one.

Castiel looks at Dean. "What do you want?" he asks, trying for disinterested, but he can't hold back the tiny twist of a smile that breaks out on his lips.

Dean nods appraisingly, his own smile stretching wider in response. "Well, damn," he says, leaning on one leg. "Correct me if I'm wrong, sir, but you actually look glad to see me."

Of course Dean was going to be an asshole about it. Of course. Castiel huffs out a short laugh, shaking his head. "You're a pain in my ass, Winchester," he admits, "but you're also a good guy – an even better medic – and a lot of people didn't make it off that beach, so..." He trails off, meeting Dean's eyes again, and shrugs. "Yeah. I'm glad to see you."

Dean full-out grins at that, and he pushes his hands into the pockets of his pants, rocking back on his heels giddily. His chinstrap of his helmet is unclipped and it slides down over his eyes. "See, that wasn't so hard, was it?" he says, tipping his chin up so that he can see past the brim of his helmet. "I'm not so bad – once you get past the devilish good looks and all."

Castiel squints at him. "You need to adjust your helmet sizing," he tells him, refusing to pander to his stupid games. "I don't know how it possibly couldn't fit you with such a big head, but I suppose God moves in mysterious ways. And _dig in_. I won't be allowing you any beauty sleep tomorrow morning, so you'd better get settled down."

"Yes, sir." Dean pulls one hand out of his pocket to readjust his helmet and starts to turn away – but then he pauses and spins back, digging in his pocket. "Uh – do you want this?" He comes up with an entrenching tool, and to Castiel, whose hands are caked with dirt and coming up with blisters from trying to dig a foxhole with his bare hands, it's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. "I found a spare one on the beach."

Castiel stares at him, mouth slightly open, and at that moment he's so grateful he thinks he could kiss him. Then he remembers himself, and he's nodding numbly. "Yes," he says stiltedly, stumbling over his own tongue now that he's accidentally let in the thought of pressing in close to Dean, crushing their mouths together, licking heatedly over his teeth and tongue— "Thank you." He takes the entrenching tool from Dean's hand.

Digging goes much more smoothly now, and he manages to get his shell scraping finished to an acceptable standard, albeit shallowly, in under half an hour.

By this time, almost every single man not on duty is wiped out fast asleep in their own scrapings, aside from Sergeant Barnes, to whom Castiel gave the task of writing up the company's assault report and losses, and Dean, busy reorganising his musette-bag of medical supplies.

Castiel watches him for a moment before heaving himself to his feet, and he crosses quietly to Dean.

Dean looks up as Castiel approaches, and smiles tiredly. "Evenin', lieutenant."

"Sergeant," Castiel greets. His eyes flicker over the products that Dean is rearranging in his med-kit, and it does look like Dean is doing something useful, he'll admit. He removes his helmet – grunting as he does so, as pain courses in all directions from his wounded shoulder. "You - _Jesus_ – ow – you should get some sleep."

Dean doesn't answer; his eyes are fixed on him, his expression for once completely serious.

Castiel shifts uncomfortably. "What?"

"Back on the beach," Dean says, setting down his equipment, "you got hit, right?"

Castiel stares back at him, defensive. "A lot of people got hit," he says flatly.

"A lot of people also died," Dean points out, rolling his eyes. He folds his arms. "Refusing help doesn't make you a better officer, you know. It just makes you stupid."

"It's fine, I swear," Castiel says gruffly. "Just a piece of goddamn shrapnel. Doesn't even hurt."

Dean stares him down, eyebrows slightly lifted in disbelief. "Bullshit." He gestures for Castiel to come closer, but his hand freezes in mid-air when Castiel fixes a dark glare on him.

"I'm not going to back to England because of a shitty piece of metal in my shoulder," Castiel tells him, jaw set.

"I'm not trying to send you back to England here," Dean says. "Christ, relax. No-one gets sent back to England for a wound like that. I'm just trying to stop you from getting goddamn septicaemia – which, by the way, will _definitely _get you sent back to England." He doesn't wait for any further sign of confirmation; he hoists his medical kit in his arms and to clear some space in his scraping for Castiel to sit, who begrudgingly steps down into the space, sits, and turns his back towards him.

Castiel shrugs off his combat jacket, and sits quiet and expectant for a minute or so as Dean searches through the contents of his musette bag. There is a moment of awkward shuffling as Dean twists around and shuffles in close behind Castiel to do his work, clicking a small white headlamp on. Then it starts. There is a gentle, insistent tugging sensation at Castiel's shoulder-blade as Dean peels the fabric of the t-shirt away from the wound, growing ever more painful until at last there is a sharp yank – Castiel hisses in through his teeth. "Jesus, what are you—"

"Quit whining – I haven't even started yet," comes Dean's disembodied voice. He pulls on the hem of Castiel's t-shirt. "Off."

Staring determinedly ahead as though by solemnity he can somehow nullify the heat searing up in his cheeks, Castiel lifts his shirt off – all by himself, stubbornly, despite Dean's attempts to help him where the pain in his shoulder won't let him twist his arms out of the sleeves. The night air is a chill on his skin, but Dean's hands are warm.

"Now, sir, can I save my morphine for someone else, or are you going to be a little bitch?" Dean says, his voice low, humorous, and much closer to Castiel's ear than he had expected.

Castiel swallows, his throat sticking; his hands curl into the material of his combat pants and grip tight. "Save it."

Dean digs in deep.

Castiel clamps his lips tight together, doesn't let a sound out even as he can feel blood trickle down his bare back, and the metal shifting under his skin. The pain hits him in waves, second by second; Castiel closes his eyes and tucks his chin down into his chest, gritting his teeth against the heavy pulsing ache of it.

After what seems like a lifetime, there is a thump as Dean drops something to the ground, and the pain in Castiel's shoulder eases infinitesimally. He sags with relief, leaning back into the warm solace of Dean's hand on his spine. "You done?" he asks wearily.

"Nearly," Dean replies, his voice muffled as though he's holding something in his mouth. "Hold on." There is the snip and crinkle of a packet of sulfa powder being opened – the faint rustle of bandages being unrolled – the squeak of tape - and only then, as Dean is carefully smoothing the tape over Castiel's skin, sticking tight, does he say, "There. Good as new, sir."

For a few seconds, Castiel remains still, just breathing slow and steady as the pain in his shoulder recedes. As Dean can be heard rustling around his musette bag, putting away his supplies, Castiel tries flexing the hand of that injured arm, curling his fingers, tensing the muscles in his bicep – it all hurts, but it's better, and it'll do.

"Thank you, Winchester," Castiel says, twisting to look back over his shoulder at him, and then is suddenly floored by the realisation that, in order to access the wounded shoulder during his operations, Dean is sitting right behind Castiel – and so Castiel turns back to look at him – and so Dean glances up to accept the expression of gratitude – and so they find themselves pressed tight and close, the side of Castiel's bare arm flat against Dean's chest, and their faces so close that if Castiel turned his face just a little further to the left, their noses would touch.

The headlamp is glaringly bright in Castiel's eyes, but its harsh white light casts Dean's skin pale beneath the blood and grime, his eyes yellow-flecked in the greenness, long eyelashes lightening at the ends. There's a smell on his skin besides sweat and saltwater that leaves Castiel dry-mouthed; under the headlamp's band, his hair is unkempt, helmet-flattened; he has freckles.

After a long pause, Dean says quietly, "You're welcome," and his breath rushes warm over Castiel's mouth.

Parted lips pressing dryly together, the dull sound of Castiel swallowing seems incredibly loud in the silence that has fallen over them. The space between them is almost thick enough to taste, open-mouthed. Had Castiel any sense of internal reasoning, he surely would have had some voice in the back of his head shouting, _don't do it don't do it don't don't don't, _but, as it is, there is nothing to be heard at all except for the soft hush of their breathing, and Castiel's eyes flicker slowly lower. Snagging on the blood caked on the side of Dean's nose, the smear of dirt over his cheek.

His eyes fall shamelessly, at last, to Dean's mouth.

They stop breathing.

Heavy-lidded, lips numb, Castiel's eyes drift up slowly back to meet Dean's – and find him staring back wide-eyed. The expression in his eyes is devastating, all fear and heat and, more than anything else, this overwhelming softness like hope or longing, so fierce and intense that if Castiel had breath left in his lungs, it would all be snatched away from him.

That's when he realises what is actually happening.

Castiel tears his eyes away from Dean, snaps his head back to face the front fast enough to get whiplash, and he breathes, one long, shaky exhalation. His heart is beating impossibly fast in his chest. At his back, Castiel faintly feels Dean let out the same pent-up breath - probably the same air. Castiel swallows hard and tries to ignore the sensation of that breath whispering over his bare shoulders. His hands are shaking.

"Thank you, sergeant," Castiel says – realising a split-second too late that he's already said that, idiotically repeating himself – and his voice is rough, scratched like cigarette smoke.

Dean doesn't answer. Castiel can hear him breathing; the sound is unsteady.

Castiel stands up in one jerky movement, his limbs clumsy. Heart still thundering like an air-strike, he lifts his arms and slips back into his T-shirt, then shrugging into his combat jacket. He wrestles the zip up halfway, retrieves his helmet from the bottom of the shell scraping, and returns to his own without looking back.

**7****th**** June, 1944**

The next morning, Castiel is awoken by Private Blake crouching beside him, carefully shaking his shoulder. Unfortunately, it's the injured shoulder, and so Castiel is instantly awake, groaning as pain shoots up through his arm. He sits up, knuckling at his eyes.

"Morning, sir," Blake whispers sheepishly, looking nervous at having had to be the one to wake up their platoon leader - no – shit, make that company commanding officer – and then straightens up. "Corporal Mills is still on stag, sir. He's on the second hour of his rota."

"Get someone else to relieve him," Castiel says blearily. He checks his watch: nearly oh-four-hundred hours. "You get back on duty though. And tell Mills to fill in his foxhole."

As Blake nods and hurries off, Castiel begins the struggle up onto his feet. He's stiff from sleeping in the dirt and his shoulder is a pounding ache that travels all the way up to his head with every movement, but he tries to work past it, moving gingerly as he shrugs into what equipment he could recover after the disastrous near-drowning at Omaha. His unloaded rifle is dusty, but seems to be functioning, as he quickly tests the bolt and safety. He then heads over to wake up Sergeant Milligan, who, in turn, will awaken the rest of the group.

The soldiers are up as fast as they can, roused by ten past and eating cold rations out of the foil bags – no time to heat them, and fearful of the attention that the bright glow of firelight might bring from the enemy positions. Castiel doesn't eat anything. His stomach is curled too tight with anxiety to even think about breakfast.

Yesterday, the title of commanding officer had been thrust upon him out of nowhere, so it wouldn't have been entirely unexpected if he had made mistakes or lost some of his men along the way; he was new to the role, and there was a great deal of pressure, and in spite of already being a platoon commander, he was, for the most part, unprepared. Now, however, in the space of less than twenty-four-hours, he is expected to lead his men through an assault of his own design, claiming three important German gunner positions in the process. To say that it's nerve-wracking would be an understatement.

Instead, his hands itch for a smoke. He squats to sit on his own heels, perched birdlike at the edge of the road, with his knees pulled up close to his body in order to keep warm in the pre-dawn chill, and fumbles in the breast pocket of his combat jacket for his cigarette tin. In the sunless cold, his fingers are numb. He struggles, first with the tin and then with his lighter, and is so busy muttering vague, helpless obscenities under his breath that he doesn't notice the long shadow that comes to stand over him, blocking out what thin haze of early blue light has filtered through the trees, until Dean says, "Need a hand there, sir?"

Castiel glances up, but with the light behind him, Dean is no more than a silhouette – broad at the shoulders, loose-limbed, and with his helmet cocked at a recognisably obnoxious angle. Castiel looks away and focuses his attention back on his lighter. "I've been lighting my own cigarettes for longer than you've been old enough to buy them," he mutters, grouchy with the early hour and the cold seeping all through his bones like water through dry soil.

"You wouldn't know it to see you, sir," Dean comments, his tone amused in a way that falls just dangerously close to patronising, and Castiel is about to snap back at him when he drops to his knees, level with Castiel, and reaches out – without asking – to take the end of Castiel's cigarette neatly between his index and middle fingers, just ahead of Castiel's own loose grip on the rolled paper. He is still cast all in darkness, but there is the line of his nose, the pale light highlighting the back hinges of his jaw, and without a word, Castiel lets Dean pluck his lighter from his hand and light his cigarette.

Dean's hands are warm on Castiel's skin, and deft, moving with surgical dexterity and precision. He flicks the light on, holds it to Castiel's cigarette, and waits. At this proximity, the dim flicker of the flame is enough to briefly illuminate the details of Dean's face, and Castiel sees that Dean is watching him carefully – as though prodding him to see how he'll react. Like he's come to some kind of hypothesis somewhere, and here he is now to test his theory.

Castiel sucks in his breath, slow and deep, eyes never leaving Dean's face, and the tip of the cigarette smoulders brighter for a second before settling to a steady burn. He keeps the smoke in his lungs as possible, letting it sting and crackle inside him like a fan to soft kindling, waiting until he's all filled up with it, up to the brim with fire.

Dean swallows.

Castiel exhales, chest deflating as though he's been physically hollowed, abdomen to clavicles, and smoke rushes out to twist through and tangle between their fingers until their hands are indistinguishable, one from the other.

Dean lets out a short, rough breath, as though he had been unconsciously holding his breath with Castiel. He lets his hand fall away from Castiel. "There you go," he says, and there's a hoarse edge to his voice that Castiel couldn't be sure was there before. Dean stands quickly, dusts off his knees with brisk movements, and unceremoniously thrusts Castiel's lighter back towards him. "And here. Your lighter. Lieutenant."

Castiel takes it from him. "Thank you." He pinches his cigarette between his teeth while he stashes it back in his pocket, and when he looks up, Dean is gone. At a distance, the morning light is still too sparse to differentiate him from the other men, let alone to try to deduce somehow the reason for his behaviour, or his reactions to an unmitigated and altogether bizarre interaction, so he ducks his head low and takes another long drag.

It's time for the offensive.

By oh-four-thirty, the men are packed up, having eaten, and are ready for a quick briefing on the plan of the morning. From what they saw yesterday, the German position is fairly simple – one medium-sized concrete pillbox with one internal cannon, trenches encircling it for defence – and although it isn't exactly textbook, Castiel doesn't think the assault will be too complicated. Hopefully they can take the Germans by surprise. None of the men have any questions, so there's nothing else to wait for.

With his heart beating like a bird in his chest, Castiel shoulders his rifle sling and heads out to take his tiny, fragmented company out on his first exercise in command.

They patrol staggered in the thin grey light of dawn, weapons in hand, and move out down the road towards the enemy. There are five German strongholds between here and the beach, making it the best-defended part of the Omaha beachhead, but for now Castiel is looking to try and take the one nearest to Vierville – coincidentally, also the one overlooking the D-1 draw down onto the beach.. It should be fun.

As they walk, Castiel is so engrossed in running over the plan in his head that it takes him a good few minutes to notice who he's walking behind. It's hard to see anything of Dean past the bulk of his equipment, but Castiel can recognise the long curve of his legs, and the Red Cross stamped on his haversack makes for pretty clear confirmation.

"Winchester, you're not going in with the rifle team," Castiel says, keeping his voice low. "Drop to the back."

"Yes, sir." Dean steps out to one side to wait until the rest of the patrol has passed him; he doesn't look at Castiel.

Some two hundred yards or so from the position, Castiel sets down his almost-platoon behind a barn to organise a plan, peering around the corner. They're much closer now, and in the light of day, Castiel can see that the trench system is basic, one large semi-circle around the pillbox, broken only in places by small gunner posts. He can't see a door into the pillbox, and assumes it must be around the other side.

"Right." He swivels back, crouching in the dirt, and leans against the wall of the barn as he looks out at the faces of the NCOs gathered around him. "Milligan. See that tree-line, far-left of axis?"

"Seen."

"I want one team of gunners set down there, and I want you to get another team around the other side of the pillbox. Heavy oppressive fire – I want you to keep their heads down while we get the riflemen into position. Actually – take Miller and Doe with you, try to get some shots into the pillbox. Radiomen and medics with the first team of gunners until otherwise called for. Montgomery, there's a ditch along the side of the road nearest to us, heading all the way down into the draw. Don't go that far down, but I want men spread along that line, mortars on the trenches and switch fire when you see the gunners doing so. Remember – _only _the trenches – the gun is not your problem, is that clear?"

"Yes, sir."

"Rifle-teams left flanking behind the gunners, all the way to the back of the pillbox, and then I want you to split. The trench is essentially a U-shape so we can get enfilading fire – work from the top and meet in the middle. Quentin, take the left-hand side; Lafitte, you're on right. Just... don't shoot each other. Grenades in first if you've got them. We've got to move fast – we can't risk reinforcements being called in from the other positions. Any questions?"

Corporal Mills raises a fist. "Sir, what about the gun, then?"

"We'll cross that bridge when we get to it." Castiel glances around them. "Anything else? No? Okay, move out."

They move. Every man has been briefed on what he's doing and now it's their turn to act. It's nearing oh-four-thirty hours and as the sky grows ever brighter, the chances of the German being awake and active increase. Castiel is painfully conscious that, due to the lateness of their attempts at assault last night and the consequent lack of visibility, he has very little intel; he has no idea how many Germans will be defending this position, nor what weapons they're carrying. He supposes they're about to find out.

Pausing to remind Corporal Montgomery not to start laying down mortar fire until after the gunners are in position, Castiel drops off the artillery team and runs after the other men, who are already disappearing into the trees. There is low shrubbery, coarse and spiky, which will be good for cover, but it means that the men are slow-moving, their boots an endless crunching through the undergrowth. In his peripheral vision, Castiel is aware of movement in the trenches.

The early-morning tranquillity is shattered by a shout – a short, ugly word that Castiel doesn't understand – and then, immediately afterwards, a sharp, echoing crack. Then again, again, again, as the alarm is raised and the Germans realise what's happening and they scramble to their defensive positions.

Shit. So much for the goddamned element of surprise.

"Come on, come on," Castiel urges under his breath; he's running behind the machine-gunners, who aren't yet in nearly a good enough position to efficiently cover the trenches, but the rifle-teams are far ahead by now and are nearing the stage at which they would need to break out from the tree-line. They're running out of time to give covering fire, fast. "Here," he yells, sharp hand gestures slicing towards the ground. "Mills, take the rest of them round!"

And then men are dropping to the ground, shimmying into position amongst the bushes and bracken – snapping LSW tripods open, uncurling bullet-belts from draped over their shoulders – while the other half of them head in the same direction as the rifle-teams, to flank and give covering fire from the other side. Castiel drops a crouch beside one of the privates, fits his rifle to his shoulder and spends a second trying to help the sharpshooters firing at the pillbox. Inhale. Exhale slowly. Hold. _Crack. _There's no way of telling if he hit anything; it's too fucking dark inside the bunker and there's only occasional flashes of metal glinting from within when a Kraut shifts the angle of his weapon.

The gunners have barely been firing five seconds before there is the hollow thud of one of the 60mms being fired, then – one second, two seconds, three – preceded only by a low whistle, it hits, deep in one corner of the trenches, and there is an earth-shaking firework display of smoke and dirt. Then once more, and again after that, until the sound of German shouts are drowned out by the slow, heavy thump and explosive spray of mortars and the rattlesnake chatter of machine-gun fire.

That isn't to say that the Germans are going down without a fight; their rounds cut close enough to the position of Castiel's gunners that the hedgerows in which they find themselves entangled shudder around them, and splinters are cut jagged from the trees around them, flying in their faces. They're getting accurate enough now that Castiel has to lower his rifle and press in behind a nearby tree. He tries to peer around at the progress being made by the other teams – has to quickly duck back when bullets start hammering on his tree anew, leaves and woodchips scattering – and then, clutching his helmet tightly onto his head, peeks out again.

There they are. Led by the teams' grenadiers, one of whom does a hop-skip-and-hurl like he's trying out for Little League, the rifle-teams sprint out for the trenches. A pause of two beats and then the grenades go off, scattering earth and blood where it lands, and then the men are dropping down into the German space, the sound of their fire a juddering clatter, high _ping _when someone's clip snaps off empty. They disappear almost out of sight, ally and enemy nearly indistinguishable with only the top of their helmets exposed as they duck low, and Castiel guts twists anxiously at having his men out of sight.

He twists back around, levels his rifle and squeezes off another two shots – snaps some German's head back cleanly, dark red hole sliced through the nose, and the other goes wide on a moving target – and then yells for the attention of his gunners. "Milligan," he tries first, but is lost in the noise. "Milligan!"

Milligan looks up, startled. "Sir?"

"Get ready to switch fire," Castiel shouts. He gestures at the others at Sergeant Milligan's side who are still firing, oblivious and unable to hear Castiel over the sound of their own gunfire, and he tries to indicate that the message needs to passed on. Once satisfied that his order has been understood, he gets to his feet, keeping bent low, and starts running to follow the path already tread by the rest of his team.

Then, as he's nearing the edge of the tree-line, from deep within the chaos and smoke of the trenches there comes a strangled yell, the tone and pitch of it very familiar, and Castiel knows that someone's been hit badly. It's surreal, but time does not stop; the on-going battle doesn't care about one man, and Castiel is conscious of running some four or five more steps through the undergrowth, his heartbeat thundering in his ears, before reality seems to catch up and there is the long yell of, "_Medic_!"

Castiel can hear crashing behind him as Dean takes off running, but he's preoccupied and they're heading in opposite directions and there isn't time to think. Dean has a job to do and so does Castiel – and with that thought, Castiel breaks out of the trees. His toe catches on the brush tangling out from the roots of the trees and he trips, but then he pushes himself into a sprint, pushes himself breathless with his muscles screaming, the howl of bullets at his heels and the hissing thud of them burying themselves deep into the dirt pushing him faster; it's a strange mixture, all to the soundtrack of rattling guns and the solid rocking bass-drum of the German's Howitzer finally rumbling into action.

He skids on the short grass trying to stop as he nears the defilade where the other team of gunners are set up, and drops to his knees beside them. "Prepare to switch fire left," he yells over them, pointing with a flat hand back in the direction of the draw. "Reznik, I want you coming with me ready to get into that pillbox."

Reznik nods, lifting his elbows from the dirt to start clicking the shoulder-support of his grease gun back into place.

"Sir, we're getting real low on ammo," shouts one of the privates working to feed the bullet belt into one of the M2s. "Any chance of a little more?"

Castiel glances at him, and, shit, sure enough, there is very little of the belt left curled beneath his hands. "Give me your bandoliers," he says, reaching out and snatching the long straps from their shoulders almost before they've had the chance to shrug out of them. He loops them loosely over his own shoulder, catching on his rifle sling. "And switch to deliberate fire. I'll send a runner around in a second."

Then, without further ado, he slaps Reznik on the shoulder to let him know that he's moving out, scrambles up to his feet, and heads out for the nearest entrance to the trench. They run – the Germans' efforts are concentrated on the defensive now, and most likely in a different direction, focusing on the soldiers who are currently overthrowing their trenches, but that's not to say that no-one could pull off a quick shot on two fumbling late-comers as they move across the grass.

Down in the dirt, it's chaos. Smoke curls up loosely from the ground, left hot and cracked from shell fire, and grass and dirt are floating in the very air, filling Castiel's mouth with every breath. He ducks down, stays low, and hurries through; he steps quickly over the slumped bodies of the Krauts who went down first, his collected bandoliers banging and clattering where they swing from his shoulder.

He grabs the arm of the first guy he comes across – one Private Gideon - pulls him backwards, tips the bandoliers off into his arms and yells, "Ammo run – head for the treeline. Prioritise the gunners and then come back." He uses the hand twisted into Gideon's jacket to jerk him closer when he tries to immediately run off and follow his orders. "Give me your clips."

Gideon's free hand flies to his webbing, sharp deft movements like they'd practiced in England endless times, pulls his spare clips out of the pockets and thrusts them into Castiel's hands. Only then does Castiel let him go, and uses a hard shove to the small of his back to help him out of the trench, and he's gone.

Castiel twists back to glance behind him; Reznik is still waiting. Castiel throws him a clip, and he catches it, and they push on forwards.

The trench is cut into a zigzag to provide enfilade from fire at either end, for which Castiel is extremely grateful when a grenade lands with a dull noise in the soil by his feet. He has barely time to yell a warning and press himself flat into the dirt wall where it cuts away, before it goes off with a spray of earth and an echoing bang. He kneels, snaps the safety off his rifle, aims – but the smoke is too thick to decipher his men from theirs, so he clicks safety back on and hurries on to the next corner. There he finds Dean, knelt in the dirt over the crumpled body of one of their men, who groans something obscene as Dean works. Castiel doesn't have time to stop and see the who or what of it, but slaps an encouraging hand to Dean's shoulder as he passes.

Up ahead, there is a small cluster of soldiers pressed in behind one of the corners cut into the trench to avoid the fire coming back at them, and Castiel ducks low to run in behind them.

"Quentin," he yells over the chatter and boom of the fire-fight. "_Quentin!_" He grabs a handful of the corporal's jacket and yanks hard for his attention.

Quentin looks back. "Sir?"

"Over there – the next cut in the trench – can you see it?" Castiel says, pointing down the line. "You'll have perfect defilade over the top, all the way down until the far corner, but get some grenades in there first to clear it out, and have men ready to provide covering fire."

Quentin hesitates. "Yes, sir."

"And hurry up – I'm going to tell the other squad to drop back and wait for you to push through," Castiel adds. He shifts his rifle, shuffles out until he has a clear line of sight down the trench, and lets loose a few shots to keep the Krauts suppressed while Quentin twists back to address the men bunched in behind him and tell them their next move.

The crack of the rounds is sharp in his ears, almost painful; he flattens his tongue over his teeth and focuses on his marksmanship principles. Inhale, hold. One, two. Squeeze – don't flinch – hold and exhale. He sees a man go down backwards into a wall with a thud and a reflexive trigger-squeeze that releases a spray of bullets in all directions – and then there is a hissing crack that snaps Castiel's head back hard, and when his vision clears he finds himself knocked back onto the ground.

"Shit," he says aloud, but that's all the time he has to process what just happened because Private Bradbury is suddenly shoving his helmet – complete with rifle round buried an inch deep in the metal at the front – back into his hands and hauling him up onto his feet.

"You okay there, sir?" he shouts.

"I'm fine – you – you help Winchester move the casualty out to the tree-line, whenever he's ready," he says, still dazed, and he turns back the way he came. "Reznik?"

"Sir." Reznik appears out of the smoke and dust, breathlessly clutching his grease-gun like a lifeline. "Where to now?"

Castiel gestures back towards the exit of the trench. "Out," he yells. "The other end of the trench, 'round the back of the pillbox. Actually – no – scrap that. I'm heading for the other end, you go back to where we dropped the first gunner group, get them ready to switch fire, and Corporal Doe and Sergeant Milligan ready to move. I'll catch up in a second."

Reznik hitches the straps of his haversack higher up and sets off running without another moment spared for further instruction, Castiel just behind him as they weave back up the jagged line of the trench until it starts to slope up back to grass. Then Reznik pushes himself into a sprint across the open ground while Castiel ducks low to avoid the open slats of the pillbox and runs around the back for the other end of the trench.

As he heads back into the smoke, he is confronted by the sight of the second rifle-squad having made significantly less progress . They are scattered, pinned against the walls as they try to keep out of the way of the rattling machine-gun set up at the internal curve of the trench, which would pick them off cleanly if they emerged from their cover for more than a split-second. Castiel holds onto the edge of his helmet, not having had time to re-buckle the clip after it was knocked off his head, and zigzags fast down as far as he can – he can see Corporal Lafitte tucked against the wall near the front of the squad, and he nearly reaches him, but then there is a chatter of bullets thundering the dirt walls around him and he throws himself hard out of the way. His injured shoulder slams into the wall, pain jolting down his arm so sharp that for a second his vision whites out, and when it clears he's crouching, his back against the wall, with his teeth buried in his bottom lip hard enough that he can taste blood. He exhales heavily.

"Lafitte," he yells, and twists his head sideways to try and see if he's even being heard. He thinks that if ever there was a time when he would've liked to have more than one radioman available, it would be now. "Lafitte, drop back! Goddamnit – Lafitte!"

Ahead of him, he sees Lafitte's head lift, tilt a little like he's trying to work out if he imagined it, and then he looks back. Castiel warily lifts a hand so that it can be seen, praying it isn't cleanly removed by the Germans unleashing another round of bullets down the trench, and he makes the signal for the squad to pull back. Then he lifts his rifle and clicks the safety off, to indicate that he'll give suppressive fire when they move.

Lafitte gives a curt nod, and then he hoists his rifle up, ready to run. Castiel turns halfway back to Privates Spruce, Tran, and Chambers, wedged into the wall opposite, a few feet back from him. "Prepare to give covering fire," he yells. He looks forwards again, tilts his body a little away from the wall for better line of sight down the trench – and then, with a slap to the shoulder of the man beside him and a short command that Castiel can't decipher, Lafitte is up and running.

Castiel lets off a volley of shots that crack over their heads as they run, and then, once they're past, switches fire to actually try and hurt one of them, but the German gunner is not intimidated and lets out another deafening rattle that has them all pressed back against the walls.

"Pairs fire and manoeuvre back to the previous corner - Chambers, you're with me," he shouts across to the guys on the other side of the trench. "Ready to move?"

Kris Chambers gives a short nod, eyes narrowing.

"_Move_!"

Castiel hitches his rifle up and sprints, pushing himself hard enough that the muscles in the backs of his calves sting, and when he reaches the corner he crashes down into a crouch that leaves him skidding unsteadily across the dirt, rocks tearing up his knees through his combats, and he snaps his rifle up into his shoulder. "Move!"

Somehow, through all the smoke and chaos, Castiel sees that he clips the gunner's arm, sends a splash of blood out back against the guy feeding the bullets in, but otherwise doesn't do much. Once Spruce and Tran come running in, Castiel orders two other privates to take over suppressing the enemy while he fills in Lafitte on what's happening next. Lafitte's squad is to stay here, progress no further down the trench, but hold their ground – they must not allow themselves to be pushed any further back. Suppress the Germans while squad two clear them out from the other side. Stay put to grab any stragglers trying to escape down this end. Shouldn't be too complicated.

"Are we clear?" Castiel asks.

Laffite nods. "Yes, sir."

Castiel glances around the men. "I want two riflemen for the pillbox assault team."

"Chambers and Rourke." Lafitte points at them, beckons them over, and they come darting across the exposed space to press into the corner next to where Castiel and Laffite are knelt. "You two are heading over with the lieutenant to take the pillbox," Lafitte tells them, tipping the brim of his helmet up with one knuckle. "Get some extra clips from the others if you need 'em – I want you to have at least four each, you hear?"

They scatter to reorganise their ammunition; as Castiel waits, he asks Lafitte if anyone in his squad have grenades or Comp B. Lafitte digs a wedge of the explosive out of the back pocket of his webbing and passes it over, with the apology that they used all their grenades coming into the trench. By then, the others are ready and Castiel leads them out. They cross paths with Private Gideon running back to the second gunner team, slow and lopsided as his musette bag jangles by his leg with every step, heavy with replacement ammunition, but there's no time for so much as a nod of acknowledgement and they have to move on.

It's not far to the tree-line now – just another few paces – but still there are bullets hissing into the dirt around their feet, zinging into the tree trunks up ahead that hit them with a spray of dry, summer-cracked bark splinters so that they have to duck their heads low. Then they're under cover, stumbling over roots and low shrubbery as they weave and pick their way back to the gunners.

Castiel pushes ahead. "Switch fire," he calls out, his heart thunderous in his ribcage even as the words leave his mouth – because once the gunners switch, the mortar team will stop firing, which in turn means a decrease in suppressive action on the pillbox, which means that the Howitzer has clear sight to take out all three teams, and the Germans riflemen can fire more effectively down into their town trenches. It means they have to move fast. "Milligan – Doe – Reznik – on me!"

There is a scramble as the two NCOs extricate themselves from the tangle of hedges in which they'd hidden and come up to kneel beside Castiel, clicking new clips into their rifles. Milligan comes to meet them, dropping to rest on one knee for the others to fall in behind him in formation – Lance Corporal Doe just behind him, and thankfully, Doe has two grenades tucked into his jacket; the others fall in at the rear.

"I want you in and out as fast as you can," Castiel says. "We need that pillbox taken before it takes out our artillery, and if there's any radiomen calling for help, they'll be in there too, and we need them cut off. Take out the gun and then get out – head for the wood-line past the second gunner team. Clear? The entrance is around the front of the pillbox, just above the trenches, but Quentin's squad should have cleared it by now." He glances around at them all. They're fast and they know their drills – they should be fine, he tells himself. Feeling his chest constrict anxiously, he clears his throat, tightens his fingers on the stock of his rifle so he can't fidget with indecision. "Move out."

He goes with them as far as the pillbox and then takes off running for the second gunner team, where Private Gideon is unloading the contents of his musette bag into their hands. "Switch fire," he yells as he comes in towards them, stumbling on the uneven turf as he slows down to drop onto one knee beside them. "Switch right, across behind the pillbox!" That's all the time he can spend on them, and without even pausing to catch his breath, he drags himself back onto his adrenaline-shaky feet and takes off through the trees in the direction of the mortar-team with the thought that, god, he could _really _do with another radioman.

As he takes off across the open ground, he is already acutely aware of the tonal shift of the gunners' rounds coming down, now that they've changed the direction of their fire, and he hopes it isn't something the Germans pick up on too soon. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Dean and Private Bradbury – recognisable by the curve of one's legs, the bright shock of hair under the helmet of the other – jogging awkwardly away towards the woods, the combats-clad body of the trench casualty hung loosely between them as they move him to safety. Then Castiel's coming over the crest at the edge of the clearing, where the ground dips away to give way to the main round, on the other side of which the mortar team are tucked into several small hollows in the ground with the look of shell craters or the marks left behind by a vehicle which settled in one place for too long.

"Sir," Corporal Montgomery calls out as Castiel comes over, "we've held our fire – do you want us to—"

"Move out," Castiel shouts over him, and as he skids to a halt he drops down heavily to sit beside Montgomery in one of the hollows, his back pressed against the upwards curve of the dirt. He takes a second to drag in deep, gulping breaths, his chest heaving with exertion. "Far right of axis – past the gunners – into the wood-line. Take up a defensive position and—"

At that moment, there is a long, shrill whistle, a raw scream of "_Incoming!", _and all conversation is cut off as they duck low into their cover and curl up tight – the words, _not today, not now, not like this_ a desperate echo in Castiel's head as he flattens himself against the soil – and then there is a crash like thunder all through Castiel's bones, dirt lifting like an act of God. He's still alive. He uncurls, exhales shakily.

"Take up a defensive position," he tries again, although he keeps low to the ground now as he speaks, "and wait for the assault team to go through to you. You'll be the re-org point – now pull back!" He lifts himself on his hands, legs underneath him with muscles coiled to spring up and run away as soon as he's ensured that their next task has been understand, and then he gets the _yes, sir, _the clanging as they pack up their guns to move, and that's his cue.

There is another hollow chug, greedy machinery gulping air, and then there is the slam into earth that nearly takes Castiel's legs out from underneath him. A high whine rings in his ears, with an occasional wobbling shift in pitch as he runs, like his skull has been filled with water that sloshes to fill one ear and then the other, so that by the time he has stumbled back to the second gunner position, he is thoroughly disoriented. He drops into a crouch, near-oblivious to the men at his side while he fights to catch his breath and looks towards the pill-box, from where smoke is billowing, accompanied by frantic German yells and the chatter and flash of gunfire through the fog.

"Sir? Lieutenant Novak?"

Castiel looks over to see Montgomery staring expectantly at him with eyebrows raised as though to say, _well, now what?_

"Oh." Castiel takes a deep breath. "Hold your position," Castiel instructs, and he glances up along the gunner line to see how the others are doing for ammunition. Even with Private Gideon's ammo run, they are running dangerously low. "Slow your fire but keep sporadic pressure on, and be ready to re-org past the tree-line. The mortar team will already be there."

Then, waiting no longer than the handful of seconds needed for Castiel to receive Montgomery's confirmatory grunt of an order understood, he grips the edge of his helmet to keep it steady, hauls himself to his feet, and sets off running for the pill-box.

The entrance is round the front, in full view of the trenches, but there seem to be no more shots bearing up from the dirt, and the movement below suggests that Quentin has pushed through to clear out the last section or so of men before Lafitte, and Castiel makes it to the door unhurt.

When he swings through rifle-first, to clear both corners nearest to the doorway before sweeping to follow the action, he comes in to the sight of a bayonet being buried helm-deep into the chest of one shivering Kraut, while another squawks in frantic German as he climbs down from the mount of the Howitzer with his hands held high. Doe's rifle is trained on his head.

"You speak German, sir?" Doe calls cheerfully without taking his eyes off him.

"I don't need to," Castiel says, with barely a glance towards them. "When we're all clear, march him back to Vierville as a POW and report him to Major Everett." He looks over the rest of the scene; the other men gingerly turn over bodies to check that they're dead, firstly, and also to search for useful information or weapons. Castiel catches Reznik's eye. "Reznik, blow out the Howitzer. The rest of you, I want you to move out to re-org past the tree-line – the mortar-team should already be in position, it shouldn't be too hard to find them. Chambers, hang back. Search all the bodies, here and in the trench, and report any new intel and POWs back to the S-3 with Doe. All clear?"

"Yes, sir."

Milligan slaps one of the remaining riflemen on the shoulder and leads the way out of the pillbox at a jog, hollering "_Re-org_!" as he goes, and not a second later there's the clatter of ammunition and equipment as soldiers haul themselves up and into motion en masse. Castiel pauses to root one extra clip out from his pocket and toss it over to Chambers, just in case they run into any trouble searching the trenches, and then heads back out to move with the rest of them.

Castiel drops out to crouch on one side of the mouth of the rest, gestures with a sharp jab of the hand and a yell for the men to follow Sergeant Milligan into the trees, and then hails Corporal Mills over to join him. "Can I borrow some water? Thanks – and do you know where Winchester went with the casualty?" Castiel mutters as he fumbles in the back of Mills' haversack for his water bottle.

"Hell if I know," Mills says, tilting sideways a little for ease of access. "I couldn't see a damned thing down there. I figure the sensible thing to do, though, would be to take him back to the main road, closer to Vierville, in case we had to retreat."

Castiel tips Mills' bottle up in a sharp move, catches a mouthful of cold water that tastes of rust and dirt. and passes it back. "Yeah. Do you even know who it was?"

"Blake, I think." Mills helps him do the buckle up again.

"Shit." Castiel exhales sharply. "Okay. You send a runner back to find them, see if they need anything, help them get back to Vierville if they can't make it on their own steam, then tell Winchester to get back here ASAP – he's the only medic we've got right now."

Mills nods. "Yes, sir." With that, he's up and gone.

Castiel takes a second to breathe, and watches the last cluster of his men disappear into the tree-line where Milligan was directed, before he hauls himself to his feet and runs after them.

There are three more pillboxes before the D-1 Vierville draw, each as well-defended as the first, and each one more prepared for combat as word spreads through the German lines that the Americans are coming to clear them out, but they manage to make it through two with relatively few casualties – one Private Scott killed by mortar-fire, and only two injured, with the exclusion of Private Zeddmore spraining his ankle when he falls into a foxhole. By the time they're rallying to hit the third, they are perilously low on ammunition, frankly exhausted, and it's a relief to have their radioman, Harry Spangler, run over to Castiel saying to hold off the last pillbox as Major Campbell is sending the rag-ends of Fox Company to take over.

"Okay," Castiel says. All his clothes are lined with a thin, cold dew of his sweat, and his injured shoulder has begun to throb painfully in time with his every heartbeat as though it's determined to make him regret that he survived – and it's not even oh-nine-hundred yet. He flattens a hand over the crown of his helmet and arches backwards in a long stretch to try and catch his breath. "Okay. Roger that, and tell him we'll hold our position until Fox get here."

Private Spangler scrambles away to relay the message back to Vierville. Castiel looks out across his company, currently scattered all about him in all-around defence, some sprawled prone to watch the roads and woods, some kneeling as they take on water or reorganise their ammunition; Private Reznik is hurriedly re-lacing his boots.

Castiel hails over Sergeant Milligan and Corporal Lafitte, as well as Corporal Mills, as an after-thought, and gives them their orders: take three squads respectively to each of the earlier-established rendezvous points from the previous pillboxes, holding those positions until the arrival of Fox Company, when they could return to Vierville and report to HQ Company about the hand-over of the cleared enemy positions. "Lafitte, you're on pillbox two," he says with a short gesture back down the main road, and he glances around the group. "Mills, you're on the first one. Milligan, you're with me holding the one we just assaulted – that's the position they're most likely to try and retrieve. The squads are shot to pieces but you'll have to improvise. Work something out amongst yourselves. Any questions?"

A chorus of, "No, sir," comes back at him, and, satisfied, Castiel nods to send them off to their tasks. They immediately fall to dividing the company into makeshift squads, with only minimal attempts to keep equal levels of gunners, mortars, riflemen, and technicians in each – time is key – before they move out. Milligan reorders the remaining men into a more secure defensive position, pushing them out further into the trees to keep an eye both on the pillbox some fifty metres behind them and every possible route of access for returning Krauts, and in the meantime Castiel finds Private Spangler again to radio back to Vierville the actions being carried out. Then he borrows a map from Milligan, with apologies for his poor admin, what with his own kit being somewhere underwater down at Omaha, and he is just familiarising himself with the routes between Vierville and neighbouring villages, trying to imagine what their next move might be, when he overhears the closest he's ever encountered to mutiny.

"—don't get why Novak thinks he's so goddamned special," one of the NCOs – one Lance Corporal Quentin – is complaining under his breath. He's tucked up in a kneeling position behind the gnarled trunk of an old tree, and positioned near enough to the neighbouring tree, where Private Bass is kneeling, that they can talk quietly. "Hell, if Hester knew this guy were ordering us about out of his ass, he'd give him what for, even if the shit he was getting us to do wasn't totally FUBAR—"

"Was there something you wanted to say to me, Quentin?" Castiel says, tone sharp.

Quentin's head snaps up, and for a second his cheeks colour with the realisation that he's been caught. Then, however, he draws himself up tall, lifts his chin so the back of his head leans lazily against the tree-trunk beside him . "Actually, yeah," he says, raising his voice a little. "See, sir, I was just wondering how it was that you got to keep out of all the action while the rest of us are down in the dirt getting our asses torn to shreds. Just wondering."

Castiel tilts his head. Quentin isn't one of Castiel's platoon; he's one of Alistair's, from four-platoon, and Castiel has always had the impression of him as a slimy time-waster, one only ever does the bare minimum that was required of him before giving up for a smoke and a poker game. Castiel has told himself a hundred times to be fair, that it's cruel to make judgements of people based on the little interaction he has with some of them, but in this case it appears his prejudices weren't too far off the mark.

"I would've thought that'd be officer's prerogative," Castiel says, and he looks down at his rifle to adjust where the strap has become twisted, to smooth out the coarse fabric and check that it isn't fraying where it rubs against the metal of the weapon.

"Well, so would I, sir," Quentin says, "but seeing as there were officers and all thrown down in that trench, and you were all too happy to tell us all where to go and stick our necks out like we're getting goddamned apples shot up the tops of your heads, and you're off in the trees minding your own sweet business, I figure maybe you think you're some kind of special case who don't have to fight a regular war like the rest of us."

Castiel doesn't react; he lays his rifle strap flat, scratches a spot of dust from his rifle casing with his fingernail, pinches the material of the front of his combat jacket and adjusts the weight on his shoulders, like he hasn't got time to just stand and listen to complaints without another task at hand. "Is that so?"

"Yeah, that's so." Quentin tips his head forwards in a lazy mockery of a nod. "_Sir._"

"And what if I was company commanding officer?" Castiel says, and he lifts his eyes to meet Quentin's. "Then what?"

Quentin opens his mouth.

Castiel watches him patiently, waiting for a response.

"Sir, I—" Quentin cuts himself off. "I didn't mean to—"

"Captain Milton got hit on Omaha," Castiel continues, interrupting any feeble attempt Quentin might have made to excuse himself. He doesn't bother crossing the distance to Quentin; he rather prefers the idea of belittling him from afar, so that he's embarrassed in front of the rest of his squad. "So, as it happens, I am company commanding officer. Now, if you'd like to stay to the back of the fire-fight, be my guest. Would you like to run the company, too?"

Face drawn tight like sucking on lemons, Quentin bites out a, "No, sir."

"Please, I insist. It is, after all, such a safe and luxurious role."

Quentin drops his head sulkily to stare at the dirt. "No, sir. I'm – sorry. Sir."

"I thought as much." Castiel straightens slowly. "Now, seeing as you saw fit to tell me how to do my job, I might take this moment to advise you as to how you should be doing yours," he says, his voice hard. "Do as you're told."

"Yes, sir."

"Regardless," Castiel goes on, more sharply now, "of whether you think you're smarter than the orders being given, or whether you think the officer giving them isn't worth the shovel it'd take to bury him. Now," he lifts his chin and looks at Quentin down the length of his nose, "is there anything else I can help you with, Corporal?"

"No, sir."

"Then perhaps you'll do me the kindness of looking out for the enemy, instead of using your temporary employment as defence as an excuse to gripe."

Quentin scowls but makes no noise of complaint; he adjusts his rifle in his arms and twists back to face outwards, as does his neighbour. From that point onwards, no sound is made. They lie or kneel in the dirt, waiting and watching. Fortunately for them, it's less than half an hour that Castiel's squad remain in the defensive before Fox Company patrol in to relieve them.

"Hey, Novak," Captain Laufeyson says as he wanders over, leaving his men to wait just short of Castiel's position. He has a wound that runs through his bottom lip across the edge of his jaw, a red angry thing that cracks and bleeds as he speaks. "Whatever happened to the Cap?"

"He went down on the landing," Castiel says, for what seems like the hundredth time today, and, without waiting for any further conversation of the how's and why's of his impromptu promotion, he updates Gabriel on the situation and the likely strength of the last enemy position based on the last three that they took out.

Grateful, Gabriel pats a hand to Castiel's upper arm and then sidles away, hands in pockets, to instruct his men with a kind of lazy authority that Castiel almost envies – with a twang of anxiety, he muses that Gabriel has probably never had to talk down a subordinate for resenting his commands. He doesn't let himself dwell on it, however, and he gets to moving his own squad back down the road to Vierville while Fox Company continue west to do all the hard work.

The sun is climbing now, hot on the baked dirt and on the backs of their necks as they patrol back, and if there is a cool breeze up from the sea less than a mile away, they don't feel the benefit of it. They're sweaty and breathless for the most part, and Castiel still strangely conscious of the round buried in the front of his helmet – although Corporal Mills, when he'd seen him, had laughed out loud with the delighted exclamation, "You've got a pretty little souvenir there, lieutenant!"

When they get into Vierville, the rest of their disjointed almost-company is sitting around on the steps of a grand monument honouring the lives of the brave townspeople who were lost in the Great War, smoking up or napping in the warm lull of sunshine or otherwise stretching in the luxury of a moment without urgency. Upon seeing Castiel, some of them wave or call out greetings; he tips the front of his helmet politely in their direction as he slows to stand in front of the statue. For a second, he looks up at it, but the afternoon light glinting off the dull bronze is too harsh in his eyes for him to read the inscription, and he turns instead to survey the men sprawled on the steps.

"Doe," he calls as he finds the young Lance Corporal mid-argument with Laurie Gideon after having called bullshit on Gideon's story about meeting Rita Hayworth on a vacation in Orlando.

Doe finishes the debate by flicking the bum stump of his cigarette at Gideon, and then swivels where he's sitting to answer Castiel. He shields his eyes with one hand to look up. "Sir?"

"Did you get all the POWs back to HQ alright?" Castiel asks.

"Yessir." Doe picks a wad of tobacco out of his mouth and flicks it absently into the distance. "Three of 'em, sir. All handed over to Major Everett for intel and called in to Lieutenant Shurley for the report, et cetera, et cetera…" Doe cocks his eyebrows impatiently as if to demand that no more be asked of him.

"Good. Thank you." Castiel looks over the rest of the men. "How are you all doing?"

Calls of '_good'_ and '_alright, sir'_ chorus back at him, mingled with the odd sarcastic comment; Ed Zeddmore grins from where he's spread out with his sprained ankle propped up on Corbett's knee, and he exaggerates some great wince as though he's in mortal agony.

"Didn't you hear, sir?" Andy Gallagher teases, and throws his arms back behind his head to stretch languidly over the steps. "We won!"

"Gallagher, your optimism is ever appreciated," Castiel says lightly, but he understands – they made it off the beach, this village is under their command, and there is a sort of lazy seaside easiness to being here in the wake of their first triumphant battles, sitting on the steps of the victors who came before them.

"What he means is shut the fuck up, Andy," Kris Chambers jeers around a mouthful of D-rations, and then ducks as Gallagher sits up to toss a crumpled ration wrapper at his head.

"Sir," Sergeant Milligan gets to his feet, with one hand thrown up to catch Castiel's attention. He pauses then, once Castiel has looked over, and waits as Castiel picks his way carefully around the cluster of slumped, lazy bodies at the base of the statue. Once Castiel is close enough for Adam to go on without the attention of the whole company, he goes on, "The S-1 came by earlier to say that body searches on the beach have come up with a lot of good kit that I'd say the original owners probably aren't gonna need anymore – said that if anyone needed anything replacing then they should head over and speak to him. He's stationed in the first old stone house that side of the main road."

"That's good news. Thank you, sergeant." Castiel turns back to face the rest of his men. "Does anyone have any kit in need of replacement?"

"Zeddmore lost his balls back on the beach, I think," Private Miller pipes up.

"Shut the fuck up, Max!"

"Why – you gonna call your mom on me?"

"Hey, if you do," Gallagher joins in, wearing a smug grin from ear to ear like he thinks he's the funniest person alive, "let her know I won't be around this weekend, but I'll see her again real soon."

Temporarily incapacitated by his injured ankle and unable to smack him, Zeddmore snatches up a combi-tool that's sitting loose on top of someone's open weapon-cleaning kit nearby, and hurls it at Andy as hard as he can.

"Come on, knock it off," Corporal Lafitte grunts at them from around his cigarette, as Reznik, the owner of the cleaning kit, lets out a wail of complaint.

Castiel looks between them all with a closed expression that he pitches somewhere between unimpressed and disapproving, despite a rush low in his chest at the knowledge that this time two days ago he hadn't known whether any of them would make it off the beach alive; he thinks he can deal with immature antics, then. "Right, well, if later it turns out that someone was in need of kit replacements, I'll be sure to point their complaints in your direction seeing as they couldn't get a word in edgeways," he says, eyebrows raised pointedly.

"Wait, sir!" Private Tran waves a hand frantically. "Sir, I lost my haversack on the beach."

Castiel nods. "Report it to Lieutenant Shurley. I'll get you a new one. Anyone else?"

Spruce speaks up about a broken musette bag, and a few of them grip about whether any more ration packs have come through, but otherwise the rest are in good order; someone calls in a pseudo-effeminate voice, "_My hero_!" as Castiel heads away from them in the direction of the house where Milligan had said the S-1 was based, and the ensuing laughter is good-humoured. For having invaded enemy territory and being stood now on foreign soil, vastly outnumbered by its German occupants, the men are relaxed and content. Castiel can't deny them that.

He finds Major Singer deep in conversation with some of the commanding officers of the other companies about the reallocation of so much lost equipment, while administrative staff from HQ company sort through damp, dirty haversacks piled to about waist-height and call out ownership details from any tags they can find. Castiel waits in the doorway for some lapse in the conversation when he can make his presence known, but before such an opportunity arises, Major Singer catches sight of him and makes an irritated noise in the back of his throat.

"Let me guess," he says with a roll of his eyes, "you need kit replacements too."

The other officers – actual, qualified commanding officers, with at least the rank of Captain below their belt – notice him, then, and their eyes sweep over Castiel to take him in, not with intentional criticism, but Castiel feels younger and more inexperienced than ever. He recognises a tall, rakish blonde man, one Captain Azazel, of Easy Company, as having once attended Ant Milton's pre-departure briefings on coordinating heavy artillery with the rifle companies; there's a slim dark-haired Major who Castiel has never officially met, but whose face and position as head of Able Company he can pair with the name Michael Isaacs, and then one other Captain, for Dog, who he doesn't know. Under their gazes, Castiel has an acute sense of insignificance, but he looks away from them and tilts his chin up to meet Major Singer's eyes.

"Is there a problem, sir?" he asks.

"Yeah – seems like half the goddamned invasive force dropped their equipment on the beach or in the water, and now they've come stumbling back to look for it all." Singer shakes his head. "We'll get it sorted out. What do you need?"

"One standard-issue infantry haversack, and then I lost just about every on the landing," Castiel starts.

"So that's officer-issue haversack, musette bag, and all the stuffings," Singer says, more over his shoulder to the administrators than to Castiel. "Anything else?"

"No, sir. Thank you, sir." Castiel nods respectfully, and is about to head back out when Major Singer throws out a hand to stop him.

"One moment, Lieutenant." Singer glances towards him and then looks back towards the other officers amassed in front of him. "All you COs need to go over at some point and speak to Major Campbell about your next movements. There should be a briefing tonight, ready to move in the morning."

Castiel blinks. He had been anticipating several more days in Vierville, to finish clearing all the Omaha draws before they began to progress inland; this is sudden, unexpected, and sends a fresh rush of dread over him at his lack of preparation to command an entire company. "All due respect, sir, but moving out when there's still at least of my company unaccounted for seems—"

Major Singer cuts right over him, his words sharp and exasperated. "Lieutenant, there is a very real possibility that every single one of them could be dead, in which case, we're gonna be waiting one hell of a long time for them to be accounted for. Now, I'm sure that's not the case, of course. We have some two thousand men the other side of Pointe du Hoc, but if we sit around waiting for them to clear it, the Krauts'll come back to reclaim what territory we've already taken. We have to keep moving."

Castiel presses his lips tightly together with the sense of having been smacked across the nose like a badly behaved pet, or a small child in need of chastisement – and in front of the other company commanding officers, as well, whom he'd been hoping to impress with wisdom beyond his years and sound tactical strategies in battle. "Yes, sir."

"Right. If there ain't anything else you need, then that'll be all, Lieutenant – I still have things to discuss with the other COs," Singer says, and turns away in a clear dismissal, not born of rudeness, but of simple preoccupation. This doesn't make it feel any less like a rebuttal.

Castiel thanks him again, quietly, since the S-1 is already focused on the other officers, and then heads back out into the thick sunshine in search of his medic, knowing that a full battle report is preying on the horizon, and that in order for it to be written, he needs to know the details of the injuries sustained by his men.

By instinct, he starts back towards where the rest of his small, disjointed company are lounging to eat and smoke, before he remembers that he has already seen that Dean isn't there.

He pauses in the middle of the road, one foot in the gutter that runs like a long, open-topped prism down the middle of the road towards a stony drainage system that junctures off sharply at street corners; pigeons wing tiredly overhead, cutting short shadows against the sun as they pass over and settle on windowsills. He looks up and down the street both ways, towards the victory statue and then away deeper into the town, and it is some twenty yards further down the road, past the civilian buildings being used for HQ administration, that sees Private Bradbury idling wandering.

Even from here, he can detect the reddish stains of dark blood on Bradbury's hands, and he remembers that Charlie was the aid to the first casualty evacuations of the morning's assault. Castiel turns that way, and calls out, "Bradbury!"

Charlie looks up in surprise, and lifts a hand as though to wave, but instead settles that hand uncertainly on top of his helmet. He dithers for a second, as though unsure as to whether he should move to meet Castiel, or wait to see whether Castiel will come closer. At last he ventures a little closer; Castiel takes pity on him, and walks to meet him halfway.

"Sir?" Bradbury asks. "Everything okay?"

"Don't worry, everything's fine – have you seen Sergeant Winchester?" Castiel says.

"Not since the first cas-evac, sir, but if he isn't with everybody else I'd expect he's still in the medical tent," Bradbury suggests. "Otherwise, no idea. Sorry."

Castiel thanks him anyway, and directs him with a gesture, flat of his hand pointing down the street, towards the statue where the rest of the men are grouped for lunch and general re-organisation. Bradbury slips his helmet forwards off his head and scratches one hand through his scruffy red hair, caked as it is in mud and sweat, as he makes some awkward attempt to excuse himself, so Castiel officially dismisses him – to give them both some peace of mind and clarity. He continues then in what seems like blind fruitless search for Dean, but as Castiel rounds the corner towards the medical centre, he catches sight of Dean there. He is standing at the side of the road, bent over as he tries to wipe his hands clean with a rag of dubious hygiene. He is dirt-smeared, with a dark splash of dried blood over one eyebrow, and he looks up as Castiel approaches.

"Sir." Dean raises one hand in a lazy greeting. "How d'you do?"

"I'm alright." Castiel comes to stand before him, hands loose at his sides. "What's the report on the casualties?"

Dean exhales slowly, tilts his head back. "We've got one death – Private Scott, near-direct mortar hit, but he was one of the add-ons from A Coy – and we've got Blake in with a femoral artery puncture and a round lodged in his kneecap, which they're working on getting out now, and then there's Private Rourke, took a hunk of shrapnel to the face, but it's nothing serious…" Dean trails off with a shrug.

Castiel makes a mental note of it; it'll have to go in the assault report later. "Do you have estimated recovery times?"

"Rourke should be ready to go in a day or two, as long as he takes it easy for a while. Blake…" Dean grimaces. "It could be months."

"Noted. I'll let the S-1 know. And you?"

Dean looks at him. "What about me?"

Castiel glances him over – skips past the gleam of sweat on his skin where his shirt opens and looks instead to the lean of his hips, the careful bend of one knee. "You're favouring your right leg."

"Oh." Dean lets out a short laugh and tips his head down. "Yeah."

"What did you do?"

"I, uh," Dean starts, his eye contact only fleeting, "I pulled a muscle, sir."

Castiel stares at him. "You pulled a muscle," he repeats.

Dean tucks his bottom lip sheepishly between his teeth in an attempt to bite back his embarrassed grin. "Yes, sir."

"It would seem you foolishly neglected those all-important muscle warm-ups on the start line of an assault," Castiel dead-pans, and he lifts his eyebrows.

Dean rolls his eyes. "Yeah, okay, it's ridiculous, I know—"

"I didn't say it was ridiculous—"

"But it _is _ridiculous—"

"Yes, it is." Castiel can feel the tug of a smile on his mouth. He looks at Dean, his head slightly tipped to one side, and just takes him in – his skewed, sweaty hair, his nose crinkled where he winks against the sunlight now that the day is easing into bright ripples of summer heat. There is a waxy streak of camouflage cream above his upper lip, and in that yellow light, thick as home-made lemonade, he looks warm. Castiel narrows his eyes against the contented pull of his mouth to grin back at Dean, and looks away towards the statue at the other end of the road. "You should get some food down. I don't know our next orders yet, but we could be moving out again soon."

Dean nods. "Yessir."

He stoops to collect his helmet where it was lolling against his boot as he cleaned his hands, and Castiel spies the white flash of photo-paper folded into the headband before Dean fits it to his head. Castiel wonders if Dean would be in love with a dark-haired girl in ribbons, or if his sweetheart is some sweet golden summer thing. He wonders if Dean would've had the foresight to ask her to marry him before he went away.

"Sir?" Dean lifts his eyebrows. "Was there anything else, or…?"

Castiel blinks. "No." He clears his throat. "That'll be all, sergeant."

"Okay." Dean looks at him curiously, but then sidesteps Castiel neatly and heads off towards the main square with only a slight limp. Castiel waits until Dean's footsteps have faded entirely before he turns away from the medical tent and heads off to find his executive officer. He has a battle report to write up.


	4. Grandcamp-Les-Bains

**GRANDCAMP-LES-BAINS**

_8__th__ June, 1944_

_Dear Sam,_

_Well, I made it to France! I say that like I'm surprised, but the crossing was difficult. We lost a lot of guys. I got a lot of guys back who we could have lost, I'll say, but we still lost a lot. Like I said, it was tough. I can't say too much about what we're doing at the moment, you know, in case the letters get intercepted or anything, but do you remember the way we used to play when we hung out with the McHewens, back when you were in the third grade? With the treehouses and the girls' fort versus the boys' playhouse? It's like that right now. Except a little bigger, I guess. I don't think anybody ever went into a playhouse flamethrower-first._

_There was a couple of days where we all got split up - we lost half the platoon when the landing went a little haywire, skewing men everywhere - but we're getting everyone back together and sorted now. There was this cliff we had to clear - a real big deal, since a load of infantry Rangers had already been at it for days - and we were going cross-country with tanks and naval support and all kinds, Sam, you'd have thought it crazy. Absolute chaos, but all of us working together got it done by noon and we were able to settle down to lunch on these clifftop - Pointe du Hoc, since I figure even if the Krauts steal my letter (in which case, how fucking dare you and I sincerely hope you put this back in its envelope and send it straight on its way before I catch wind that my little brother never got his post) they won't be too much informed in hearing about a battle that's been over and past for days - anyway, so there was hundreds and hundreds of us, all sweaty and exhausted, up on that clifftop, and we got a good hour or so while the officers were sorting out admin and next movements, when we all got to just sit around on this grassy slope eating our lunch and looking out at the ocean, and let me tell you, Sammy, that was one fucking beautiful day._

_And hey, don't say that about Novak. I mean, yeah, he's kind of an asshole, but he's not that bad. As far as stressed-out grumpy officers go, he's a good one. He's growing on me. We're not friends, but - I don't know. Plus, you never know that he's not gonna read all my letters and then send me out on a suicide run or some shit for it. Can't be too careful. More importantly, I spoke to dad. He sounds sorry, like, really sorry. You know he didn't mean to lose it so badly, he was just a little messed up and he'd been out all night – and don't say that he doesn't care about you going to college, you know that's not true. He's real proud of you, Sammy, and one day he'll figure out how to show it proper. Trust me._

_Anyway, that's all from me for now. Write back whenever and I'll send my next letter as soon as I can. Take care of yourself, and good luck with your paper! (And DON'T wear that brown shirt to the movies. I know you want to but don't. Jess will run a goddamn mile. Wear something nice. And tell her nice things when you see her. Buy her some popcorn, you'll be fine.) See you around – bitch._

_T-4 Sergeant Winchester_

_91W1O, Company B, 116__th__ Infantry Regiment_

_29__th__ Infantry Division_

_United States Army_

**9****th**** June 1944**

"Alright, alright, I've got one – so how do you know if your sister's on her period?"

Corporal Mills makes a disgusted noise in the back of his throat. "Jesus Christ, Gallagher—"

Private Gallagher lets out a shrieking laugh. "'Cause then your dad's dick tastes of bl—"

The end of the joke is drowned out by revolted complaint, and a well-thrown stone bounces off the back of Andy's head with enough force that he stumbles. Castiel lifts his eyes skywards in hope of some heavenly sign that this too will pass.

They're on the road west towards Isigny-sur-Mer, with Vierville some six miles behind them, the sun at their backs, and their patrol formation loose and lazy as they march in three ranks down the long coastal highway that veers away from the landing beaches towards Isigny-sur-Mer, an essential point in coastline enemy communication, and a necessary capture in order to join with VII Corps. There are enemy batteries still active along the road which they've been tasked with clearing out, and, having already captured the occupied towns of Gruchy and Saint-Pierre-du-Mont, as well as assisting the 175th and 224th in clearing Pointe du Hoc, the men feel pretty good.

The day is clear and optimistic, with their next target - that of Grandcamp-les-Bains, a heavily occupied coastal resort town whose main access route is a single bridge - only a few hours' march away, and with the afternoon coming up hot, sweat prickling under their helmets, Castiel has let the men loosen up a little to talk as they walk. First they griped; now they've fallen to telling jokes, the quality of which are rapidly deteriorating, and Castiel is beginning to regret his initial decision.

"Man, that's fucking disgusting—"

"You are not allowed to tell anymore jokes. Ever," Staff Sergeant Milligan said emphatically, his nose screwing up at the end. "Actually, no – fuck it. You're going point man for that."

"Aw, come on!" Gallagher protests, and he spins as he walks to face backwards so as to face Milligan properly. "It wasn't that bad—"

"Face the front," Castiel calls out from his position a few rows back, tucked in one-platoon's order of march to hide his own elevated rank, while someone further behind snickers, _that's what she said._

"Too late, Andy," Milligan says, his voice almost cheerfully singsong. "Switch out with Spruce."

Obediently, Gallagher does, even if he does grumble all the way as he jogs up the front of the patrol, and Spruce breathes a relieved sigh as he drops back. No-one likes going point man; jokes about having the best view aside, few men are particularly enthused by the necessity to pay the most attention to the upcoming landscapes and obstacles, as well as the prospect of being the most likely to get shot. At the moment, luckily, it isn't such a problem, as they're marching in one long column, with the 5th Division Rangers ahead of them. Taking Grandcamp promises to be difficult, since their intel had informed that the highway approach leads across a flooded valley, and that the enemy has strong points to the west with extensive fields of fire from higher ground, and so having the battle-practiced Rangers up ahead makes for a comforting presence.

Castiel raises his voice with his own addition to cut through the chatter of the men still mocking Gallagher's idiocy and poor taste. "What's red and shaped like a shovel?" Just ahead of him, Private Tran tips his head back with a short laugh as he pre-emptively understands where the joke is going. Castiel ignores him, squints a little in the light, and delivers: "A red shovel."

A chorus of groans filters up around him, so Castiel considers the joke well-executed.

"Sir, that was majestic," Corporal Lafitte drawls, some few yards behind. "Gave me honest-to-god chills."

"I do like to keep my wits sharp," Castiel says. "It's been said I have a natural gift for comedic timing."

Someone snorts and hastily turns it into a cough.

"So there's this guy with erectile dysfunction," Dean's voice starts up, far enough ahead of Castiel that he can't identify where exactly in the patrol he is, but he has a knack for story-telling, and as ever, as when he would regale the whole company with anecdotes from his little brother regardless of whether or not they were interested, his voice carries. "Right? And he's got this date one night who doesn't know about it—"

"Sounds like your autobiography, Zeddmore!"

"Shut the fuck up!"

Everyone in the near vicinity does shut up, though; they fall into an eager hush, knowing from experience that Dean's jokes are usually almost side-splitting, and always unexpected. There's something in his voice as well, his delivery, the dumb little voices he puts on for different characters, like he's setting up some kind of pantomime for entertaining children, and so it's impossible to keep from leaning in to listen.

"—bails on it! And so the girl calls him the next morning, mad as anything, starts asking why he didn't show up," Dean is saying, and there, up ahead, are his wildly gesticulating hands. "Now this is gonna be awkward, but he figures, just be as honest as possible—"

Something flashes bright in the distance.

Castiel's eyes snap across to catch it, but it's already gone. He stares after where he thought he saw it, waiting to see if it was something easily explained away – the shift of sun behind clouds, or light off the buckle of the haversack of the man in front. The road stretches out long and straight for a couple hundred yards or so before it begins to be broken up by small houses, little stone structures with shutters painted bright colours that shine out of the otherwise monochrome blurs of buildings, marking out Les Rivieres, the last village before the town boundaries of Grandcamp-les-Bains and this seems to be where the flash had come from.

It is entirely possible, Castiel tells himself, that it could be nothing at all, or something entirely mundane, like a woman wearing a new metal watch out in the sunshine, oblivious of the approaching American battalions. He stares until his eyes water, and nothing seems to change.

Dean's voice continues, fainter now as Castiel focuses on the entirety their surroundings with an intensity that blurs all his vision together. "And she says, 'oh, that's terrible, I'm so sorry! But if you were embarrassed about it, you could have just turned up to the date and explained it to m—"

The light flashes again, for a split-second longer this time, and Castiel hones in on the source. It's undeniable this time; straight down the road, through the middle of the village, there is something dark and metallic that winks in the sunlight.

"—and _he _says, 'oh, don't worry, darling, I wasn't embarrassed! It was just that I—"

"Winchester, shut up," Castiel says, raising his voice to cut straight through Dean's. "I want everyone tactical. Now."

Silence falls heavy like a bucket of rainwater being abruptly up-ended, save for the clanking of equipment as the men check their safety catches, hesitantly shift their ammunition, and prepare for imminent enemy contact. The hush spreads quickly through the entire column like a wave, until it seems that not a single person from the five small, disjointed companies pushing down the highway towards Grandcamp even dares to breathe.

Castiel squints through the sunlight down the road for any further developments, but there is no movement whatsoever from the far end of the village. He recalls from his briefing that there is a single bridge over the Elle River into this side of Grandcamp, and it lies just beyond the last houses of Les Rivieres. He highly doubts that the German occupants of Grandcamp are simply going to let them cross it.

"Laufeyson?" he calls haltingly, and his eyes flicker across the backs of the heads of his men, in search of the point where his company starts and the previous company ends, and, more specifically, in search of the Fox Company CO. "We've got at least one position at the end of the village."

"Seen," Gabriel Laufeyson calls back, voice soft as though trying not to spook a wild animal as the companies march onwards, the footsteps of a hundred-odd men a drum-beat, in time as they crunch over the gravel and asphalt. "Light artillery, I think."

Castiel swallows hard. He tries to clear his head, give himself space to think. Company commanding officer, he reminds himself. Something is going to happen, soon, and he's going to have to be ready for it. "So what are they waiting for?" he mutters.

"God knows."

They slow down and split off, letting the 5th Rangers spread into tactical offensive positions along with Captain Laufeyson's Fox Company, and otherwise the 116th drop back as a reserve. They head off the road into low cover to wait and watch to see if they'll be needed, either as fire support or as reinforcements. Private Kris Chambers heads off with Laufeyson's men as a runner, ready to relay any messages back to Castiel if radio communication fails.

If all goes according to plan, after this bridge crossing the 2nd Battalion will be heading southwest through the countryside to outflank Grandcamp via capturing its neighbours, Maisy and Le Calvaire - but if they can't get this bridge, it's going to be one hell of a long walk around. For now, though, they can only wait and see.

They huddle low along the side of the highway, tucked into a grassy ditch where the ground slopes away from the tarmac's edge, and they clutch their weapons close to steady their nerves as they watch the first two platoons of the point Rangers company spread into staggered file and amble, seemingly without care, down the road through Les Rivieres.

In one of the village houses, a window shutter bangs, twice. Someone further along the line nervously clears their throat. Castiel has the sense that, just for one moment, the whole world is holding its breath.

Then Dean begins to whistle.

It's some shrill, obnoxiously cheerful tune that Castiel vaguely recognises from radio advertisements back home - vaguely, as even to say that Dean is tuneless would be an excessive kindness - and he drums his fingertips on the metal buckle of his first aid bag so that it clanks and jingles along with him.

"Winchester, shut up," Castiel hisses, and he throws a glare in his direction.

Dean catches Castiel's eye and cocks one eyebrow up as though mocking him for a suggestion that is, really, pure common sense, and could well keep them all from being killed. Thankfully, though, Dean does stop whistling.

Castiel turns back to face the road but the Rangers are now out of sight behind the line of houses, and all is silent again. Then there is the crack of a rifle - and again, and then again, layer upon layer until the air is thick with it, only broken by the loose bone-chatter of machine-gunners. There's a dull, heavy noise, followed by a whistle as high as a songbird, a crash, and then there's smoke and dirt and frantic yells rising over the grey-shingle rooftops.

Dean starts to whistle again. This time, it's _She'll Be Coming 'Round The Mountain When She Comes._

"Winchester!" Castiel snaps.

The mortars come in volleys and send tremors all through the earth that reach them even at the roadside beyond the village boundaries, and dimly the screams of the assaulting men form words - _drop back; find a way around; fucking hell radio in for light artillery effective immediately centre-left of axis_ - and Castiel realises that he's still holding his breath. He exhales slowly.

As the yells for direction turn to _oh shit someone get me a medic_, Dean dusts off his hands on his combat pants and gets to his feet. "That's my cue," he says under his breath, and with that, and one hand curled around the strap of his bag to keep it steady, he sets off running. Much to Castiel's annoyance, he whistles as he goes.

For the best part of an hour, Baker Company are not called upon to do anything other than wait and occasionally to help those actually involved in the fire-fight to bomb up new ammunition clips. Castiel has a cramp in one leg, and he sees of the men nearby shifting their weight and shaking pins and needles out of their limbs. Then, at around oh-nine-hundred hours, Private Chambers comes breathlessly sprinting back from Captain Laufeyson's side to say that they need heavier artillery to break through the German position, and that the 116th are to set up fire support either side of the town while General Gerhadt calls in the 743rd Tank Battalion.

Castiel nods. He raises his voice over the noise. "Where should I meet him?"

Chambers points. Castiel takes a moment to notify Second Lieutenant Virgil, his temporary second-in-command, and then takes off at a jog, crouching low so as not to be seen in all the smoke and thunder.

The plan is a simple one, Castiel discovers: cover our own asses while the tankies do the hard shit. Gabriel's words.

Baker Company take the far left, maneuvering behind the neat stone houses to a position where they can lay down enough suppressive fire to at least keep them all alive until something a little heavier gets here to clear the bridge. They move fast and dig in hard - platoons one and two along the river's dry grass verge, three and four fifty yards back to keep light artillery on the enemy gunner position, as well as to keep an eye out for German reinforcements coming in from Grandcamp and the surrounding area.

Two of the German gunners and half a light mortar squad switch fire to target Baker, so it's by no means an easy position. They kneel or crouch or lie flat on their bellies in dust and prickly grass, rifles tucked up against their bodies like clinging to a fraying lifeline while bullets rattle past them. Castiel presses low into the dirt and he yells himself hoarse over the crash of incoming shells that land near or amongst them and he fires steady with the tip of his tongue pushed into his cheek for concentration.

By oh-ten-hundred, the bridge is cleared, with the help of the 743rd Tank Battalion; by oh-ten-fifteen, Baker Company is heading down the country road that bypasses Grandcamp in the direction of Maisy - a blissful two-hour relief from being constantly attacked on all sides, during which there is sunlight and birdsong and, to Castiel's distaste, more idiotic, filthy-mouthed jokes. This is a category in which Dean Winchester, of course, seems to specialise.

They make it to Maisy before lunchtime, much to Private Bradbury's disappointment, who has been daydreaming out loud about his D-ration chocolate bar all day. There's no time to eat before the next offensive - comms are coming through on the radio about enemy strongpoints spread throughout the town, securing a defensive perimeter of the inner city, where the German officers and HQs would be located, or so Gabriel Laufeyson assumed when he called Castiel over the radio. There's one especially secure and essential strongpoint just to the west of Maisy, and it's here that Castiel is directed.

They follow the curving bypass road until it turns south towards Le Lieu Jean Margot, at which point they cut cross-country through dusty yellow harvest fields, waist-height oceans of baby corn and rapeseed. A couple of the men have hayfever and sneeze themselves dizzy as they patrol, but it's less than a mile and a half navigating crops and crooked old farmhouses before they're nearly upon Maisy, so it should be manageable. Dean busies himself jogging up and down the length of the patrol formation to check on everyone, giving out scraps of rag to anyone suffering particularly badly, and his voice is constant background murmur of reassurance and _don't worry, we'll be out of these fields soon - back into urban areas to be shot at!_ They laugh with him, at least, even with red noses and prickly tears streaming down their face.

They're still at least a mile out of Maisy, however, coming up soon to one of the smaller outlying towns, when the hungry roar of machine guns start up ahead of them and cut the corn to pieces.

"Take cover!" Lieutenant Virgil screams out from the other end of the company, and there's a correlation of approximately one second between the sound of his voice fading, and the hollow clunk that is more felt through the soles of Castiel's feet than technically heard – then a whistle, faint and shrill, and the word _incoming _has barely left Castiel's mouth as a strangled yell before the mortar hits.

It doesn't strike near Castiel – he's near the front, and it lands further back – but its impact jars his feet out from underneath him and he lands shoulder-first in the dry soil. Pain jolts down through his arm and temporarily incapacitates everything from elbow to fingertips, but the thud and scream has already started up once again, though, and again after that, and there's no time to spare in wincing over old injuries. He rolls over onto the other shoulder and uses that arm to scramble back to his feet and runs, bent low, to drive his men forwards into the engagement.

There's a long hedgerow some two hundred yards ahead of them, from where muzzle-flash flickers brightly like the lighting rig at the bow of a battleship. Bullets tear neat holes in sturdy corn-husks standing up to attention while Castiel's infantry soldiers roll and crawl and scurry along behind its cover for an opportunity to return fire without being shredded. All the while mortars are being kicked off lazily, each dull _thunk _the echo of one man spitting damp wads of tobacco into the trash.

He grabs a handful of some private's combat jacket – doesn't see who, doesn't matter who – and hauls them close to him for long enough to yell over the chaos, "Get to Montgomery, tell him to get mortars out and four-platoon down for suppressive fire", before he pushes him away in the right direction. Then Castiel is moving again, eyes narrowed against the loose dirt that cascades down onto his helmet and shoulders like hail where mortar impact has dislodged it from the ground. The ground is quaking beneath his boots and he runs with weak, wobbly knees.

He stumbles on a clump of uprooted corn but keeps himself upright, just about, and crashes hard into Benny Lafitte. "Corporal, take your fire-teams out left for a better view," he yells, voice scratched raw. "See if there's a way to flank them." He uses a hand on Lafitte's shoulder to steady himself as he twists back to find the other NCOs. "Milligan? _Milligan_! Arrowhead- lead one-platoon forwards." He turns away as he sees Sergeant Milligan getting to his feet to collect his men for movement, and he lets go of Lafitte's shoulder so that he can go and actually do his job. Castiel drops to one knee, then, as the nearby hiss of bullets into dirt presses him low and submissive, but he looks back at the untidy sprawl of his men as they try to work their way forwards into any semblance of order and control, and he yells, "And someone get me Sergeant Barnes!"

They progress in short bounds towards the far side of the field where the attack seems to be mostly coming from, as they quickly discover that on all other sides unaffected by the enemy laying down a position in the shrubbery, the hedgerows are thick and impregnable; a flanking is impossible, and so the only option is to drive straight forwards to where the road is nearest and the hedges are thinnest. They run hard, find good cover, and lay down fatal force sufficient to get the Germans' heads down long enough for Milligan's first fire-teams to push right across and dig out the gunners.

Castiel can feel bruises blossoming beneath his jacket where the butt of his rifle kicks back hard into his shoulder, but at least it's his good shoulder; the other thumps with a perpetual ache that crests and falls with his every movement. His voice cracks as he shouts over the noise, and he can barely hear himself, doesn't know if his messages are even getting through to anyone - but there is Corporal Lafitte streaking fast through the corn on the left axis, riflemen clattering behind him, and there is Sergeant Milligan disappearing and reappearing amongst the crops as he presses forwards steadily, and there, at last, is the dull clank behind him of their own mortars being set up. There's a long whistle like a songbird, and then a thick plume of smoke and dirt rises with a bang from the base of the hedgerow, tearing a hole where the hedges are already thin, and through that ragged gap, a scrambling team of German gunners can be seen.

They outnumber the Germans at least five to one, their position being only a defensive one on the outskirts of Isigny, but from that point, it's a tactical push all the way to Maisy. There are several more German positions scattered on the outskirts - tucked away in the high windows of a sprawling estate home, which Corporal Montgomery roots out easily enough with a few well-placed mortars; gunners hidden in hedgerows, which slow them down greatly as they're difficult to spot, and more difficult yet to destroy - and while they take several minor casualties, for the most part the German defence of Maisy seems scattered and disorganised.

They vault low, crumbling stone walls to get back onto the main road and move fast, their progress balanced somewhere between marching and running as they storm in through the country houses and pretty gardens. Castiel sends one platoon further down the road they've been following so far; sends two- and four-platoon down the narrower Rue de Centre, past terraced homes in the direction of the church, a logical strongpoint.

However, as they head deeper into the town, the image of it changes; the flower-fronted cottages turned into loose heaps of stone, the charming rural shop facade into a blackened hole. There is one house, half-collapsed like a rotten lung, where a fire is still burning. The walls of the house next door buckle and slope towards it, as though that destruction has left some kind of black hole itching to suck everything else in. Castiel understands now why Maisy's defensive perimeter was so incomplete; the British Navy had got here before anyone else, and near enough torn the whole place to shreds. There is little left in the way of German forces, or, for that matter, of everyday village life, and so Castiel is left with the distinct impression that when Maisy came under fire, the majority of the Germans retreated back into stronger positions Grandcamp and left those still trapped beyond Maisy floundering and without orders. It's no reason to underestimate those left behind, though.

Castiel takes three-platoon down a narrow side-alley to meet beyond the church, and when they all reunite on the other side of the town with little damage to men or morale, they push on for Grandcamp.

In the distance, there are the heavy sounds of mortar fire and what could even be naval assault weapons, and while smoke churns up thickly from far away, for now, the Grandcamp through which Baker Company patrols is silent and still. It's unsettling; they tread what is is not only the main road through town, but also one of the biggest access routes to Grandcamp's _mairie_, where the mayor would live and where all city council meetings would be held - a place that, although technically not in the centre of the town, would be the heart of it. That it should be so entirely deserted makes no sense, and raises warning bells all through Castiel's body.

Castiel lifts a hand and gestures sharply to his NCOs that they should split off into platoons and spread out - two-platoon heading north towards the coast, where large hotels and seaside resorts could be occupied, three-platoon remaining on the main road through the city, one-platoon heading out through quiet suburban areas to outflank the _mairie,_ and four-platoon's firepower divided between the others.

One-platoon skirts a large roundabout and heads southeast through housing estates with fine, green gardens. They move carefully, pressing in close to walls and peering around every corner to judge hazards before they continue. There are school grounds and dusty construction sites and wide, fresh fields with soccer posts of peeling metal, and they tramp heavy footprints through the grass as they push on.

The distant sounds of warfare grow ever louder and more intense - screaming now, somewhere north, the hollow drum of heavy artillery, and the plumes of smoke thicken to impenetrable blackness as though taking their strength from the increasing chaos which gave birth to them - and yet Castiel's platoon remains unconfronted. Radio comms are fragmented and fuzzy, so that he gets through only briefly to Second Lieutenant Virgil, who has gone north with two-platoon, and then all awareness of the rest of the company's movement disappears into the smoke. Everyone else, it seems, is caught up in fear and violence, and here is Castiel, walking through daisies with sweat chafing his helmet against his forehead, and no sign of Germans anywhere. He feels he could throw up.

They scale a chain-link fence, four by four, kneeling in the dirt to wait as the next group swing over, and then they find themselves once more on battered hedgerow-lined roads towards the open square where the _mairie _is situated. Up ahead, the road splits five ways.

Castiel beckons for Sergeant Milligan to join him, and together they jog up to the edge of the junction. He presses in close to the solid wall of hedges and counts to three - to calm his anxiously pitching stomach, more than out of any necessity to let three seconds escape - and then peers around the corner. The junction is clear, and the street across the way, the one they want to follow back into the inner city, has no marked threats, with the exception of one heavy groceries truck parked by the far sidewalk, which has dangerous potential for hiding any enemy position. Nothing else in the vicinity seems particularly threatening, however, and as it stands, nothing has changed over the passage of several minutes, including the truck. Castiel is left to conclude that this route is safe to traverse, albeit carefully.

He twists back to face Milligan behind him. "Sergeant, send two-section across the road, I want that truck checked out before we go any further. Once you've got the all-clear from Lafitte, I want Barnes and three-section following. the proven route. You'll take one-section down the northeast road back towards Vierville, clear out that side of the mayor's office." He directs him with his hands first, and then pulls the map of the area from the inside pocket of his jacket to indicate the remainder of the area they're clearing. "And watch out - this whole area is an ambush waiting to happen. Any questions?"

"No, sir." With breathless grunts and the clank of heavy, metallic equipment in their haversacks, First Sergeant Milligan hauls himself onto his feet and heads back to briefly update the rest of the NCOs on the given orders before they hurry off to see them fulfilled.

Castiel holds still, his spine a straight line pressed to the hedge until he's in danger of sinking back into it, until Lafitte's ten-man section runs past, wide-mouthed with exertion, helmets too-big and shimmying on their head with chinstraps loosened to evade sweat-burn and awkward tan-lines. He pushes away from the hedge again to peek around, watches them disappear one by one behind the truck, and he thinks he'll never get used to this - the way his whole chest seems to constrict like there's a weight atop his ribcage, the knowledge that he is responsible for the lives of these men and that he's let them slip from his sight with no way to confirm that they'll ever come back. He shuts down that thought before it can flower into full panic. He sets his jaw tight and waits.

Then, after a beat in which, save for the scuff of boots through dirt, there is no sound at all, Corporal Laffite's voice comes through: "Clear!"

Castiel twists back to yell, "Milligan!" and waves the next section through to take the northern road. As one-section storm past, Sergeant Barnes goes running by with three-section to cross the junction in one straight file, and Castiel lets five of them past him before he pushes himself off the hedge wall with enough force to give him the momentum to take off running, and slips into their midst to follow them towards the _mairie_.

They slow down once they're back in more cover, hidden between tall houses rather than completely exposed from five different directions - first jogging, then walking quickly, then a slow amble as they turn their weapons to check every doorway and every yard set back from the sidewalk. It's another couple hundred yards to the _mairie, _but so far the road looks quiet and unthreatening. Castiel's pulse is near deafening as it echoes in his skull; those thin threads of anxiety that he'd felt earlier now twist their twine around his heart to the point of suffocating. There is the _mairie_.

Castiel exhales through his teeth. "Go carefully," he calls to Sergeant Barnes. "I get the feeling that—"

A crack rings out sharply. It echoes against the stone columns and hard, painted shutters of the town hall, on and on, so that one split second lingers much longer, and before the shot has even faded into background noise, Lance Corporal Dobbs hits the cobbles face-first.

Blood drips down Castiel's face and trickles into his mouth.

It's odd - maybe it's just shock - but Castiel's primary reaction is not to get down out of the way, as it should be. He just blinks, and his eyelashes matt and clump and stick together. As a result, it's nothing more than pure blind luck that the next person picked off by the sniper is not him, but rather the man five yards ahead of him. Private Corbett.

There is another snap like a prematurely burst firecracker, and there is a spray of blood, a fine mist that coats everything thinly, and at last Castiel breaks into action.

"Medic!" he yells, and sprints for the nearest doorway, where he throws himself against the wooden door and presses as far in as he can to avoid being seen. He takes a second to breathe, his chest heaving with shallow, panicked gulps of air as the reality of the situation floods in towards. Then he presses the back of his head hard against the walls, tilts his chin up to better clear his airway, and screams again. "_Medic_!"

The crack of the sniper rifle's shot sounds again. Castiel doesn't know where it hits, but it kicks off a cloud of dark orange brick dust nearby, and this time, it seems it is not a clean shot; there is a high-pitched yelp before the thud to the ground, the clatter of the fallen man's weapon against the asphalt, and then there is the undeniable slow-drag shuffle of someone struggling. When they breathe, the sound is a blocked bathtub, draining jerkily. Castiel doesn't know who is getting hit. There is another shot, and someone starts to scream.

He opens his mouth to yell for a medic one last time - he doesn't know what else to do - he'd been so careful, considered every potential danger, been so thorough clearing each hazard, and he'd simply never thought that there would be snipers. The scream hasn't left his mouth before there comes a body crashing into his doorway, crushed flat against his chest in an attempt to get as close as possible into where Castiel is hiding, so that they might both avoid being seen, and then Dean lifts his head to speak and they're breathing the same air. Their noses collide and Dean's hands are pressed up against Castiel's collarbones, but Castiel is too busy breathlessly struggling against panic to even think about it.

"Where're you hit?"

"Not me - Dobbs - and - Corbett, and two others," Castiel manages.

Dean shoves away from him and is gone. Castiel's knees shake to buckling point, but he presses his back in tight against the wall to hold himself up, and then, after a moment to breathe (in - out - in - out - in), he pushes away from his corner and takes off for the next area of cover.

The screaming increases in both pitch and volume, forming barely coherent words that call out to a mother or wife or God above. Castiel's men bleed out over the asphalt in spurts and slow-creeping puddles, through which Castiel splashes and stumbles to get to a heavy wooden gate. Already huddled there, out of sight, are three young privates, white-faced and whispering frantically to one another. Castiel near enough crashes into them, and spares them only a passing glance to check that they're all uninjured before turning away to scan the length of the road in search of his NCOs.

"Sergeant Barnes!" he yells. No response. The platoon is scattered; there are men in doorways, in bushes, in neatly-pruned front gardens, hiding behind stray vehicles and tucked under staircases. "Lafitte!" Only a faint shout comes back that Castiel recognises are being Corporal Mills, but it issues from way down the road in a small garden where there are crooked-branched fig trees that clump close together and provide good cover. Corporal Lafitte and Sergeant Barnes don't answer at all. "Corporal Doe?" he tries, but again, to no response, even as he yells himself hoarse.

He changes tactics.

"Spruce," he says to one of the privates beside him. "Get out there and find me Lance Corporal Doe. Head left, the way we came. Gideon, you too - head up past the truck. Send him here when found. And if either of you come across any of the NCOs, that would be extremely helpful. Reznik and -who's that past you? - Tran. I want suppressive fire down as thery move out."

Private Reznik blinks with surprise. "What? Sir - where?" he blurts out, wide-eyed.

Castiel doesn't look at him; instead he checks his own weapon and snaps the safety off. "The bullets are coming from behind us - best guess is the mayor's office_," _he says. "Go high." He shuffles out from his hiding place against the gate and twists to aim up towards the _mairie_. He glances over at Spruce and Gideon. "Now!"

The two runners take off, and Castiel his rifle close into his shoulder. He shoots one careful crack after another, slow and calculated, as Reznik's grease-gun spews out a metallic roar of bullets to chatter off the _mairie'_s neatly-painted yellow walls.

In all honesty, they have little to no idea of where the sniper is, but the bullets are coming down from the eastern edge of the road, and these high, strong windows seem like a logical choice. Unfortunately, however, the sniper is now being exceedingly quiet and well-behaved; having taken out several men and incited general chaos, there is no sign of him, and so he could be anywhere. He could be moving position; he could be gone entirely, although that hypothesis seems very unlikely indeed. One thing is certain, though: as long as there is suppressive fire being laid down on him, the sniper would not likely risk any further offensive action, and therefore as long as rounds are being put down in his general direction, it is moderately safe for Castiel to reorganise the platoon for a more cohesive assault.

Of the two men sent off a retrieval mission, Private Spruce is back first, with both Sergeant Barnes and Lance Corporal Doe in tow - the former, bleeding profusely from one arm, which hangs uselessly and at an unnatural angle across his body. Corporal Rudy Doe, on the other hand, seems to be fine, and that suits Castiel well; at five-foot-two, he may be one of the smallest men in the company, which, paired with a baby face and soft dark hair like a baby's, leads to him being widely underestimated, but he remains one of the best sharpshooters in the 29th Division.

Castiel orders Barnes away to pass over his command and then wait to be treated by Sergeant Winchester, and then sets up 2IC with Corporal Johnny Mills, to cover Lance Corporal Doe with more suppressive fire while Doe gets a shot in. There are more gunners from Reznik's team to be found in a nearby garage who hustle into position for fire support, and Doe tucks himself comfortably on his belly in the long grass of the garden opposite, and then all is silent.

Still, there is no sign of the sniper. Several minutes pass in an absolute hush before Castiel snaps a hand signal across to Corporal Mills - _switch fire right. _Let the enemy think that they've changed their approach, searching for him in new buildings with new possibilities. Then, after a few minutes more, Castiel draws in a long breath and taps the soldier beside him on the arm.

"Private Tran, prepare to move," he says quietly. "I'm going to need you to do a suicide sprint."

Some of the colour drains from Tran's face, but he nods without complaint. He draws in a deep breath. "Where to, sir?"

"Back of the truck. In your own time, private."

Castiel looks away, to Lance Corporal Doe, and gives a short nod. Meanwhile, Private Tran rearranges his haversack straps and shifts his grip on his rifle as he gets ready to go. Then, abruptly, so as to give the sniper as little warning as possible, and protected by the rattle of bullets deliberately turned aside, Tran leaps up and runs across the road. There is a thunder of rounds to cover him and the sound of his boots on tarmac is an earthquake and there's a snap like the spine of a small bird that tears - just about - into his shoulder, as he zigzags wildly, and then Corporal Doe's rifle muzzle flashes hotly, once.

Tran staggers in the middle of the road, in clear view still, but no shots come to wipe him out, and he stumbles past the side of truck, clutching its corrugated walls for support, until he gets to the back corner where someone greets him with a wad of gauze to press to his shoulder and a comforting arm slung around his waist to guide him away.

Castiel release a pent-up breath. "Cease fire," he yells, and as all the gunfire cuts out at once, he glances across to Doe, still half-hidden in the grass. Lance Corporal Doe snaps up the tripod at the front of his rifle and climbs steadily to his feet, and gives a confident nod. Castiel calls out, then, "Mills - send one pair up into the mayor's office to confirm and search. Regroup all at the end of the road."

As the rest of the men jog down into the road to organise themselves, Castiel takes a moment to stride over towards the truck to see those hidden behind it, who form the impromptu medical team. Kevin Tran, thankfully, is not badly hurt; the round clipped the top of his shoulder and left only minimal damage.

"How are you doing?" Castiel asks.

Tran looks up and grimaces as he holds a wedge of gauze to his own shoulder. "Well, for a second I thought I was done for, but, uh, I'm okay."

Castiel feels he should apologise for having made Tran do a suicide sprint, but they both know that it was the only thing to be done and that someone had to do it and that it wasn't personal that Castiel asked him, and Castiel can't seem to be sceptical on his own orders. Instead he looks away to see what's happening with the rest of the casualties. He is greeted by the sounds of sobbing from one of the men on the floor being worked on.

Instantly Castiel's eyes pick out the long, still bodies stretched out side by side along the far wall, and his throat tightens painfully. He can't pick out facial features from this angle, even if they weren't smeared with blood, and so he looks away. "Who did we lose?"

Dean's response comes through gritted teeth. "Dobbs, Corbett, and Spangler." At the sound of his voice, Castiel glances over, and finds Dean knelt beside another body, that of Private Martin, whose face is being held comfortingly by one of his friends as he cries and screams so that he might not see his injury. Dean's hands are greasy and dark red as he frantically presses a blood-sodden chunk of cotton against a miserably spurting hole in his stomach. "Sir, Martin's gonna need surgery. He needs a hospital, or at the very least a qualified surgical team - we've got three wounds here, bullet must've bounced off his hipbone, and Christ only knows what it tore on its way back out—"

Castiel nods. "I'll see if we can get an ambulance truck anywhere nearby. If the 743rd have cleared the highway entrance to Grandcamp, then it should be easy enough to get him back to Vierville."

Dean doesn't thank him; he's busy.

Castiel sends word over the radio to the other platoons requesting all medical personnel in the company make their way to the _mairie _as soon as possible in order to set up a temporary aid station until ambulance trucks can get through to take casualties back to the hospital set up at Vierville. He gets several of the infantry men to leave whatever meagre first aid kits they have with Dean and those few staying to assist him.

Castiel lets Dean know what's being done before they move out, and expresses a hope that there won't be many more men sent back to him from later confrontations.

"All we do is hope," Dean says. He pauses to wipe sweat from his brow, having removed his helmet some time ago for comfort and ease of movement, and he leaves a dark smear of blood across his forehead. He looks at Castiel. "Anything else, sir?"

"No," Castiel says bluntly, and looks away towards the end of the road where the others are waiting. "Thank you, sergeant."

The road that will take into inner Grandcamp is ahead of now. There are enemy batteries and heavy mortar weapons mounting the sidewalk and brave men propped behind pretty garden walls waiting to kill them. With the exception of one sniper, Baker Company has had a relatively easy day, but now the air is thick with smoke and brick dust, and men on both sides are falling like flies.

Steering clear of the naval bombardments still underway on the coast, Castiel and his company push through to clear the western side of the city, towards where the 743rd Tank Battalion have been trying to break through the northern strongpoints for some time. They move fast through the narrow lanes and open parks and clusters of shops with the fronts torn off and charred at the roadside. They take two prisoners-of-war in blowing out a gunner position inside a _boulangerie_, and three more at a makeshift barricade of old cars and up-turned furniture halfway down the road to the beach, and all are sent back to Dean Winchester's aid station, where they can be supervised safely, and may even be able to make themselves useful.

They take position by position, a slow, menacing crawl, and wipe out what enemy the 5th Rangers, the 743rd, and the British HMS Glasgow have not yet found. They are shot at. They are pushed back and made to try again, to push harder, to grit their teeth and clench their jaws and run in screaming with bayonets drawn. Castiel leads from the front with shaking hands and he yells himself hoarse and he tries very hard not to die.

**Later that day**

Grandcamp is all cleared out by nineteen-hundred hours that day; the surrounding villages confirmed as empty or civilian-only by nineteen-thirty; the next town over, that of Gefosse-Fontenay, is taken by twenty-one-hundred hours, and Baker Company is on the march for Isigny-sur-Mer shortly after nightfall.

In the twilight, the city is a perfect coastal lighthouse guiding them in; there are fires still burning in high, hollowed-out buildings, and great columns of smoke twist and billow up from wreckage. It's quiet, though - the fighting is over. Comms on the radio direct them southeast to less damaged parts of the city, where companies Baker through Easy of the 116th will be holding a defensive perimeter until HQ Company catches up tomorrow to hold the town and brief the men on their next move.

Captain Laufeyson from Dog Company goes out to set up the sentry positions on the outskirts and arranges a patrol rota that, unfortunately, doesn't get around to including Baker's men until past oh-three-hundred hours, although at least it means that they have some downtime now.

The NCOs are sent off to find a place for their respective platoons to stay, and Castiel is just discussing abandoned homes and shops nearby that could potentially be used when a loud, deliberately bratty voice starts up, "You know, the weirdest thing happened - I just asked Gideon where I could find the CO and, man, you won't believe this, but he pointed me over here!"

Castiel looks up to see Inias striding towards him with a grin stretched ear to ear like he thinks he's hilarious. He's limping a little, and has a bust lip, but he's still talking absolute shit, so clearly he's fine. Castiel presses his lips into a tight line and tries not to smile.

"They said to look for some guy," Inias goes on, his grin only broadening once he sees that he's got Castiel's attention, and he holds his hand up about level with the top of his head, "about ye tall, skinny, kind of a jackass, to be honest. You wouldn't happen to know where I could find one of those, would you?"

Castiel casts him a withering look. "Very funny."

Inias comes to stop right in front of Castiel, and he beams. "I'm hilarious."

Without further warning, then, he wraps Castiel up in the kind of awkward, bone-crushing hug that he used to favour when relishing a success after winning some high school baseball game, but for once Castiel doesn't complain or try to get out of it. He presses his cheek lightly against the metal side of Inias' helmet, which burns a little, being hot from the sun, and claps one hand briefly on the small of his back to let him know the sentiment is both appreciated and returned.

When Inias finally lets go of him, he takes a step back, but it seems he's not yet done with expressions of fondness, as he slaps Castiel twice on one cheek affectionately, still grinning wide, and goes on to say, "Congrats, anyway. So what happened to the captain?"

"A bullet to the eye," Castiel says, not bothering to sugar-coat it. He's already answered the question a thousand times over, as well as the accompanying judgemental looks that try to figure out whether he'll be able to cope. He looks down at the ground with a loose, non-committal shrug of the shoulders, and ignores the painful twinge down one arm from his healing shrapnel wound that it causes.

Inias winces. "Yikes."

"Yeah. Fun for all the family." Castiel tries not to think about it too much - the dark thread of blood twisting down from the Milton's blackened, hollow eye socket; his open mouth, his stained teeth, the way he'd bitten his tongue nearly clean in two - and changes the topic. "So where have you been?"

"Heaven knows what happened to our LCVP but we landed way east, ended up in Easy Red," Inias explains, and he makes a face. "It was chaos, don't ask me what happened, but I managed to keep most of the men together, found another couple of teams when we got into Saint Laurent - there were at least three battalions stuck there, couldn't get through to Vierville, and then when we finally did, we get told that our CO's already off west along the highway without us!"

"Sorry," Castiel says, and feebly attempts to excuse himself with, "Orders."

"No, I'm kidding - it's fine, really. We got to hang out with the 115th, clear out some quaint little rural villages, destroy some farmhouses, all the good stuff." Inias glances around their surroundings with a disappointed twist to his mouth. "I wish I could say that we did this, but Isigny was torched before we even got here. We can thank the British Navy for that one. Next to no resistance at all."

Castiel's only response to that is a short huff under his breath, and he jerks his head in the direction of the road out of town to indicate that they should take a walk. Inias heads off first, away from the main square, and then slows to allow Castiel to lead the way or fall into step.

"So what's going on with you?" Inias asks as they pick their way through the rubble.

"Commanding," Castiel says after a moment. "Organising attacks, keeping admin running smoothly. You know. Keeping track of losses."

Inias looks sharply across at him. "Losses?"

Castiel lets his breath slowly, in one long deflation. "Put it this way. Be grateful you landed on Easy Red."

"Jeez."

They walk in silence for several paces, and Castiel is grateful that Inias doesn't ask who, or how, or whether it was easy to just walk away and keep going. He figures Inias' little ragtag platoon must have lost men as well, and the same questions rise in his throat, but he saves them for a time, later, when he has to sit down to reports and letters back to HQ. He can deal with names, then, like curls of paper pulled from a straw hat to be unfolded and disposed of.

"I got a chunk of shrapnel in my shoulder," Castiel says abruptly, just for a change of conversation.

"For real?" Inias raises his eyebrows. "Which one?"

Castiel pats the front of the offending shoulder.

Inias pulls a face that treads a faint, unclear line between impressed and horrified. "Well, damn. Is it still in there, or…?"

"No. Winchester got it out."

"Oh."

Castiel glances over at Inias; there was something weighted in that '_oh'_, something that Inias would like to think he's too mature and surreptitious to overtly express - but he has all the subtlety of a firework in a garden shed. "What?"

"He's doing a good job, then!" Inias declares emphatically, with a nod so vigorous he could pull a muscle. "Working well with the company and all that. I know you were worried about him disrupting stuff."

"Oh, yeah." Castiel looks ahead. "Yeah, he's - he's good."

"So he's not… disrupting anything?"

Castiel understands what now what Inias is getting at, and he resents it. He doesn't answer for a moment, choosing instead to focus on the gravel crunch beneath his feet, the ash and brick dust drifting loosely across the road surface to leave dirty scuffs on the leather of his boots. "No," he says at last. He clears his throat, inhales in a short sniff like he's got a cold coming on, some excuse for his behaviour - if he had any poor behaviour to excuse, that is, which he doesn't, because everything is fine. "No, he's good. I mean. Adequate."

"Adequate," Inias repeats, almost rolling the word off his tongue to taste it, but he doesn't say any more.

They walk a little longer, and they talk sporadically - sometimes they discuss movements, attacks they've undergone so far, whether Europe is the way they imagined it, funny stories they've heard from the men in the past days; in between anecdotes, they tread a slow, careful path which curves in a lazy arc to take them back to their own base.

As they return to the top of the street on which the majority of Baker Company are situated, Inias crows a delighted laugh and exclaims, "So Gallagher made it, then! Good - he was wagering with all the boys whether he'd kill a hundred Krauts on the first day."

"I don't know that he achieved that," Castiel remarks drily. "He twisted his ankle on the first battery assault."

"Sounds just like him." Inias slings a hand up in the air and calls over to him. "Gallagher!" Andy looks up, surprised, and then his face splits into an easy grin as Inias goes on, "Did you get a hundred, then, or did you decide to go easy on them?"

"A hundred? A _thousand, _sir," Gallagher yells back, all giddy bravado. "Haven't you heard? The Germans are all cleared out of Europe! We're going home tomorrow!"

Inias laughs at that, and even Castiel lets the beginnings of a smile tilt at his mouth. Inias turns to Castiel, then, and slaps a hand to his forearm. "I'm going to go over and catch up with the others - are you staying, or have you got things to do?" he asks.

Castiel looks across at where his men are, loose-limbed and light-hearted as they lounge on the sidewalk, sit in doorways, and stand around in groups to bitch and chat and eat their rations in the ever-fading light of evening. It looks like a nice way to spend the final hours of one's day, but not for Castiel. He squints. "Things to do. I need to find out where the officers are staying, and then there's paperwork - assault reports, cas-amm write-ups, you know."

Inias grimaces. "What fun."

Castiel shrugs.

"Alright, then. I'll come find you later," Inias says, and reaches out fingertips to drum a rhythm on the top of Castiel's helmet, which shakes all through his skull, and when Castiel scowls, Inias just grins wider. "Don't work yourself too hard, babe," he adds, and drops his hand from Castiel's head to his good shoulder, and squeezes it gently. "See you around."

Castiel watches him go, and it's only once Inias is being welcomed with cheers and stupid quips and the offer of coffee that he turns to leave. He finds Sergeant Campbell nearby, drinking what does not look like water out of his canteen, and asks whether accommodation has been set out.

"Yes, sir," Campbell says, and seems either very eager to help or very suspicious as he hurries to put the cap back on his canteen and tuck it away into his haversack. "Baker Company officers are over on Rue Aristide Briand, in a little apartment behind the butchers' shop, with NCOs next door in the post office, and then the enlisted men all in each of the buildings after that. Divided by platoon, sir. You, though, you're on the other side of those buildings, the next street along, with the rest of the company commanding officers and a couple of HQ staff. Those are just regular houses there, lived in or something close to that. You're number 32, I think."

Castiel nods. "Thank you," he says. "I'll come around later to check on everyone. Be sure that they all get fed and bed - once they've prepped their weapons for tomorrow. If you're low on cleaning kits, let me know."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

"That'll be all, sergeant," Castiel tells him, and as Campbell turns to head back down to the other end of the street where the rest of the men are staying, Castiel turns the other way in search of his own accommodation. As it happens, number 32 isn't hard to find, despite being narrow and set-back from the sidewalk, its stone walls painted a cracked and dusty green, with its shutters peeling. He supposes it could be said to have a lot of character, and he climbs the steps to the front door.

Castiel knocks once before entering, and even then he goes with his rifle tucked into his shoulder and made ready. He doesn't entirely trust that this abandoned family house will be without some young, determined German soldier about to decide that his best bet for survival is to lurk in a corner somewhere and then spring out with bayonet drawn at the first unlucky American to stroll in. He sweeps every room, checks every cupboard, and treads carefully near all windows and doors for fear of mines or other booby-traps left behind. It's safe, he concludes, but all the same he blocks off the majority of the house with bricks and wooden chairs piled into doorways, keeping only the empty front room and the dingy, green-tiled bathroom for use.

He leans against the wall across the front door and slowly sinks down to sit cross-legged. There, with the only easily usable exit in clear view, and with his helmet removed to be cast into a distant corner where he doesn't have to think about its weight or its sweat-encrusted headband, he pulls out sheets of paper and a pen. He's heard officers say that leading men into battle is the easiest part of commissioning; the challenge is the paperwork. Nonetheless, it has to be done.

He has only organised all of his papers into a rational, comprehensive order when Inias comes in. He has the list of Baker Company's men by his left knee, usable assets by his right, and loose sheafs between his legs on which to work what is to be done with regards to both.

"Hey," Inias says cheerily, and he loosens his chinstrap with one hand as he crosses the room. "How are you doing?"

"I'm just sorting out the company now that we've got everybody back together again," Castiel says. He frowns, then, and reluctantly amends, "Or at least, almost everybody."

Inias grimaces. "I figure you've got to rearrange some things, huh."

"Yeah." Castiel scratches the back of his head and then uses the other hand, complete with pen, to gesture ambiguously at the selection of papers before him. "It's a joy, as you can probably tell."

Inias squats down, one hand propped on each of his knees, and shifts his weight to sit on his own heels so that he can tilt forwards to peer at Castiel's paperwork. "What are you thinking, so far?" he asks.

Castiel drums the tip of his pen against the desktop. "I'm going to put Lieutenant Virgil as 2IC," he says idly, already lost in thoughts of the next role reallocation.

"Oh." Inias straightens up. "Okay."

Castiel detects a note of disappointment in Inias' tone, and he glances up from his papers to verify this fact; Inias' face is resolutely set, but there's a slight downwards turn to his lips. He seems to know this, and so looks quickly away, staring down at the desk as though thoroughly wrapped up in what he sees there. Castiel sets his pen down. "Inias."

"Hm?" Inias doesn't look up. Still seemingly fascinated by Castiel's rather thoughtless, mundane task, his eyes move steadily across the paper to track the other names listed there.

"Inias, don't give me that face," Castiel says, his voice strained in his throat. "I can't give you 2IC."

"Okay."

There is no way to get around this without just being blunt. "Inias," Castiel starts severely, "the only way that role would come to you would be if I was incapacitated - potentially fatally - in which case, I can't entirely trust that you would be emotionally capable of supporting the company." He pauses to contemplate whether his words have been too harsh, and awkwardly adds, "No offense."

Inias lets out a long breath. "None taken," he says. "I guess. No, I get it - friends don't make friends their understudies in the event of them being killed. Right?"

"Right." Castiel looks at him with an expression that he hopes conveys a sort of gentle reassurance that, were circumstances different, Inias would of course be his first choice. "Sorry."

"It's fine." Inias jerks a dismissive shrug. "Virgil will do it well. Kind of an asshole, but I'll admit he's good. What else are you thinking?"

Castiel just looks at him for a second, wondering at Inias' endless capacity to hold no grudges, to work tirelessly at the job set before him without regard for emotional bias or personal circumstance, and he wonders if perhaps Inias would have been the right choice after all. Inias' eyes flash up and meet Castiel's, then, and he realises that he's been asked a question.

He looks down at his papers and starts up idly spinning his pen between index and middle fingers. "Sergeant Milligan will take over from me as commander of one-platoon, which means all the platoon's squads are going to be mixed up, but I think as long as there's a good replacement section IC - say, Corporal Mills, or Harvelle - then they should be able to sort themselves out." Castiel narrows his eyes. "And we'll need a new first Sergeant, too."

Inias hums thoughtfully. "How about Barnes?"

"That's what I was thinking. That, or Staff Masters."

Inias nods. "Masters may bitch, but he'll get shit done. Barnes gets distracted."

"You're right." Castiel writes Staff Sergeant Mark Masters beneath where Milligan's name was originally scribbled. The structure of the company may have to shift entirely, but with any luck, it should stay cohesive and functional. Then Castiel pushes the paper, complete with edits and new additions, towards Inias. "Any opinions on the others?"

Pulling the paper closer to him, Inias takes a moment to read before he shakes his head. "It sounds good." He pushes it back to Castiel and then, with one hand clamped tight on each kneecap for physical support, heaves himself back up to his feet, groaning as he goes. One knee pops as he stands, and he grimaces. "God, I'm getting too old for this. You hear that? I'll be assaulting trenches with a walking stick, you watch me."

"Quit complaining," Castiel says, but he knows the feeling. He is by no means old - barely twenty-eight, now - but he has soldiers in his company who wouldn't even legally be able to buy alcohol back home, and they seem quick and sharp with endless energy and still possessing that magical ability held by teenagers and small dogs to bounce back like a rubber ball from any injury. Castiel, by contrast, wounded his shoulder over a week ago and still finds himself occasionally crippled by it at crucial moments.

He doesn't say any of this, though, not even to Inias, whom he has known since they were flicking spit-balls at the backs of girls' heads in the fourth grade. The last thing Baker Company needs on top of everything else is a commanding officer teetering on the edge of an existential crisis. Castiel isn't old; he isn't weak; he isn't making mistakes any greater than everyone else's, even if it may seem that way because of the increased responsibility. He's fine.

Inias notices Castiel's silence. "You alright?" he asks.

Castiel glances up, startled. "What? Fine. I'm fine." He looks away to his papers. "Don't worry about me."

"You lost a couple guys today," Inias says.

"Did I?"

"Cas."

"I'm _fine,_ Inias." Castiel won't look up at him. "Really."

He hears Inias sigh. "Okay. Whatever. I'll see you later - if you need me, I'll be over at the apartment behind the butcher's on the next road over - the _charcuterie_," Inias says, and all early French lessons aside, he completely butchers the word. He pauses in the middle of the room. "Try not to get too hung up on this shit, yeah?"

"Yeah."

At last, Inias actually leaves, and he shuts the door tight behind him. The empty front room is all hard walls and stone floors, and without the warm breezes of an orange-skied evening, the house seems cold, and the air stale and dusty. He shifts in his seat, huddles down into his jacket, and tries to settle into a comfortable position where he can work for long periods of time without getting cold or having his legs cramp up.

Castiel has no idea of how much time passes after Inias' departure - he has deliberately removed his watch and tucked it away inside his combat jacket to keep the ceaseless movement of time away from him - but when Dean comes in, the street that can be glimpsed through the door as he enters is dark and chill with twilight.

"Sir," Dean says, and strides straight in.

Castiel eyes him. "Permission to enter is denied," he says, and returns his attention to his paperwork.

Dean stalls in the middle of the room, clearly thrown off by Castiel's sudden hostility. After a moment, he concludes, "Bullshit."

Castiel sighs, but doesn't look up. "It's not bullshit," he says irritably, and he flips over one sheet of paper to access Lieutenant Shurley's notes on ammunition and rations at last count. "It's protocol. Luckily for you, as it happens, you are allowed in - I was just making a point. You should ask permission to enter."

"Okay. Permission to enter, sir?"

Castiel sets his pen down on the table and looks up at Dean with an expression that is hard and entirely unamused. "What do you want, Winchester?"

"Me?" Dean puffs out his cheeks with a long, comically exaggerated exhalation. "More money, for one thing. My brother getting the life he wants, for another. Good health! Straight knees would be good, too." Evidently, Dean thinks he's cute; he's wrong. Castiel doesn't dignify his comments so far with a response, and so eventually, at least, Dean rectifies his answer. "I've got the casualty report from Grandcamp here for you, sir."

Dean crosses the room and stoops to set the papers down to Castiel's left. Castiel watches him do it - his fingers careful on the edges of the paper so as not to smear the writing, the creak of his boots as he stands up straight again - and then Dean's eyes move from the sheets of paper to meet Castiel's. "Thank you," Castiel says.

Dean nods and sticks his hands deep into the pockets of his combat pants. His eyes don't leave Castiel's, and it's a moment before Castiel realises that he's just staring tiredly up at Dean like he's got all the answers and the magic power to make everything easy. Dean doesn't.

Castiel drops his gaze to his paperwork - specifically, to the slips of paper that Dean has just added, in which he has recounted all the injuries acquired today, as well as any deaths. He doesn't want to pick it up; he can see the names from here, each of them seeming to be etched with the shadow of a muzzle-flash behind them. Castiel should have known about the sniper.

"So, uh… what are you doing?"

Castiel knows that Dean only means it to be conversational, but he's tired and short-tempered and instead of stopping to appreciate that Dean is try to reach out to him, he says sharply, "None of your business."

For once, Dean doesn't argue. He just shrugs. "Okay."

It is Dean's unusual humility, more than anything, his quiet understanding, that twists guilt in Castiel's gut, and he sighs. "That was rude," he admits with difficulty, his voice low. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Dean says, and Castiel thinks dimly that either someone has replaced his Sergeant Winchester with a very realistic replica, or that somewhere along the line something has changed profoundly between them. "That's your job. Telling me what to do, telling me when to back off, or shut up, or… you know, stop whistling—"

"If I ever hear you whistling again you'll be point man all the way back to Massachusetts," Castiel cuts in.

Dean grins as wide as a summer horizon, as lazy and warm as one, too. "Doesn't make any difference to me, sir." He slaps one hand against the other forearm twice where his medical insignia is sewn. "Red Cross, see? I'm invincible."

Castiel does see. He doesn't answer, though; he looks away again, back down to his paperwork, and starts skimming through Dean's report. Seven casualties - four deaths, three currently undergoing hospital procedures. Castiel's eyes trace the letters spelling out the names of the dead, over and over, and he tries to imagine being the man who carefully inks those same letters onto the message home for the next-of-kin. Worse still, he imagines being the man who delivers the letter to the next-of-kin. He imagines being the next-of-kin. The report seems lead-heavy in his hand.

"You look exhausted," Dean comments.

Castiel huffs a short, derogatory laugh. "Incredible. Your powers of observation never cease to amaze."

If Castiel is being an asshole, Dean ignores it. "You should really get some sleep."

"I can't," Castiel snaps, and he tosses the report down onto the top of his stack of papers, but it doesn't even slam down satisfactorily; it flutters on the way down and lands gently, several inches away from where he wanted it to be. "I have things to do. A _lot _of things to do. I - I have to…" He breaks off.

As much as he'd like to rant off a long list of all the difficult, soul-destroying tasks that he has been set, he can't tell Dean any possibly confidential information, and he certainly can't gripe to subordinates. He has to remain in an elevated position of respect; he can't be his friend. He's losing his temper, and he can't. Just another responsibility, really - do this, do that, keep them all alive, and bear it in stoic silence. You're not a human being, he reminds himself. You're an officer. He exhales, shakily, and presses the flat of his palm to his forehead to rub in jerky attempts at soothing circles.

"Sir," Dean starts haltingly. He pauses, uncertain, and clears his throat before he goes on. "I don't know whether anyone's said this to you yet, but, uh, I think you're a fine commanding officer."

Castiel laughs.

Dean continues regardless. "I figure my opinion doesn't mean shit to you, but—"

"Your opinion," Castiel interrupts, before he realises that he doesn't know how to continue that sentence, or what exactly he's trying to express with it. Dean is staring at him now, so he tips his head back to meet his eyes, swallows past a thick lump in his throat, and goes on slowly: "…means shit to me. Actually."

A second unusual occurrence in Dean's behaviour: he doesn't have a smart answer. He stands quiet and watches Castiel, waiting for him to go on.

Castiel isn't sure what else to say. He isn't sure what else he _can _say, professionally, without saying too much. "You're honest," he says finally. "I value that."

Dean bobs his head a little, an almost-nod that got lost somewhere. "Uh. Thank you." He hesitates then, and Castiel feels his uncertainty like a change in the weather - does he continue with his attempt to set Castiel's nerves at ease, or let it go entirely? Does he change his approach, or should he be satisfied with what he's expressed so far? "Sir," he adds, after a moment too long has already passed, and the late addition makes its previous absence all the more noticeable. Dean is still looking at him.

Castiel can feel words bottlenecking in his throat, but he can't open his mouth. He swallows instead, and exhales, long and slow.

_Sergeant Winchester,_ he means to say, and would then go on to ask whether he needs to be somewhere else, because Castiel has paperwork that he needs to finish - except he says it all wrong; he says, "Dean," and his voice is too quiet for the space between them. The realisation that he has said the wrong thing causes all other words to fizzle out completely, and he falls back into silence.

He has never called him Dean before. It sounds like a confession.

Castiel wonders what it would be like to kiss Dean. Just once, not because of a burning need or a heat stoked up so high inside him that its radiative warmth must be tangible from the outside, but just because Dean's mouth looks soft and forgiving, and he could maybe breathe in all that bravado and endless confidence to keep for himself, for the days to come.

Dean hitches a sharp breath, and looks away quickly to stare at his feet as he scuffs them back and forth through the thin layer of ash and dust that coats the unfinished concrete floor. He clears his throat. "I should be going, anyway," he says, too loudly, and pivots on one foot to glance towards the door. "Getting late, you know. I should check on the men."

"You should," Castiel says, and is almost taken aback by the scratched roughness of his own voice inside his mouth.

Dean is caught off guard by it, too; at the sound of it, he looks over his shoulder at Castiel, and his mouth is slightly open, and there's a creeping flush at the base of his jaw that the dim electric lights only just catch. This is a very small room, Castiel thinks, and this is a very still night, and Dean does not have to leave yet, and if he were delayed another ten minutes, no-one would acknowledge the difference and no-one would challenge what transpired in the interval.

Dean is half-turned to leave, still, but making no progress towards the door, and it seems to Castiel that he could say one word, exhale it under his breath so that it could barely be heard, and Dean would stay.

He doesn't say anything.

At last, after what seems like an age, Dean lets out a short, harsh breath, and looks away towards the door. "I'll see you tomorrow, sir," he mutters, and when he leaves, he slams the door.

Castiel releases all the air in his lungs at once, like he's been punched, and tips his head back to rest against the wall behind him.


End file.
